A'  ^ 


THE 

ROLLING  STONE 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


NEW  BORZOI  NOVELS 
SPRING,  1920 

PETER  JAMESON 

By  Gilbert  Frankau 

THE  SECRET  BATTLE 
By  A.  P.  Herbert 

THE   CROSS  PULL 
By  Hal  G.  Evarts 

DELIVERANCE 

By  E.  L.  Grant  Watson 

THE  TALLEYRAND  MAXIM 
By  J.  S.  Fletcher 

WHERE   ANGELS    FEAR   TO 
TREAD 

By  E.  M.  Forster 


THE 

ROLLING  STONE 


A  NOVEL, 


BY 

C.  A.  DAWSON-SCOTT 


NEW  YORK 

ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF 

MCMXX 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


This  book  has  been  published  and 
copyrighted  in  England  under  the 
title  "Against  the  Grain" 


FEINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 


TO 
TOBY 


2132670 


CEapter  I 


THE  child  sat  up  in  bed. 
The  June  evening  was  light,  a  soft  greyness 
that  would  last  through  the  long  hours  till  day 
returned.     Beyond  the  white  bed  was  the  stretch  of  dark 
floor  and  a  loom  of  objects  that  he  knew  rather  than  saw. 
He  was  not  thinking  of  anything  in  the  room  but  of  some- 
thing beyond  the  closed  door,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  could  see  the  oblong  of  the  door  very  clearly  and  that 
its  stiffness  and  stillness  meant  for  him  safety. 

In  that  room,  behind  that  shut,  latched  door,  he  was 
safe  —  quite,  quite  safe. 

He  sighed,  for  it  was  nice  being  safe,  nice  and  yet  .  .  . 
He  liked  being  safe,  yet  he  wanted  to  be  in  danger.  He 
wanted  to  feel  queer  and  creepy  and  afraid,  to  dare  the 
thing  that  was  lurking  in  the  dark  outside  the  door. 

He  knew  what  to  do.  You  ran  to  the  door,  you  flung 
it  open,  and  then  a  wild  rush  and  you  were  back  in  bed. 
When  you  had  got  over  your  terror  you  sat  up  again  and 
called  "Bogey!" 

You  called  "  Bogey !  "  three  times. 

You  called,  sitting  up  and  with  the  door  open,  with 
nothing  between  you  and  it ;  and  then  you  waited  —  you 
waited  .  .  . 

Till  it  came. 

You  were  not  really  brave  unless  you  could  do  this. 

Harry  had  tried  before,  but  he  had  failed.  Sometimes 
he  had  fallen  asleep  while  thinking  about  it;  sometimes, 

7 


8 The  Rolling  Stone 

when  he  had  just  made  up  his  mind  to  take  the  risk, 
James  had  come  to  bed,  and  then,  of  course,  it  was  no 
good.  A  boy  must  be  all  by  himself  when  he  called 
«  Bogey ! " 

Tonight  James  was  away.  He  was  staying  with 
grandmother  at  her  farm.  And  Richard  would  not  come 
to  bed  until  the  clock  on  the  stairs  struck  eight.  Harry 
had  an  hour  to  himself,  a  whole  hour. 

He  wondered  over  "  Bogey."  Something  black  and 
ugly  and  bad.  All  bones,  perhaps,  bones  that  would 
rattle,  and  chains  —  yes,  chains  !  The  boy  next  door  said 
Bogey  was  a  ghost  with  a  light  inside  his  head  and  blood 
on  him. 

And  when  he  came  slipping  round  the  edge  of  the  door- 
way, creeping  gradually  in,  the  black,  horrible  Bogey, 
what  would  he  do? 

What  would  he  do  to  the  boy,  the  little  boy,  who  had 
let  him  in,  who  had  called  him? 

Would  he  spring  suddenly  .  .  .   ? 

Harry  was  damp  with  fear,  but  he  slipped  one  leg  out 
of  bed  and  then  the  other.  The  journey  across  the  floor 
was  all  too  quickly  accomplished.  He  had  his  hand  on 
the  door. 

Another  moment  and  he  was  scampering  back,  was 
safe  in  bed  with  his  dark  head  under  the  clothes.  It 
was  some  time  before  he  emerged,  before  he  sent  a  ques- 
tioning glance  about  the  room.  Bogey  might  have  come. 
But  no,  the  place  was  as  before,  grey  with  the  summer 
night  and  very  still.  It  was  certainly  shadowy  but  the 
shadows  did  not  move.  Harry  assured  himself  of  this. 
He  stared  fixedlv  at  each  corner  in  turn,  and  his  heart 
gradually  left  off  beating  so  quickly,  for  nothing  moved, 
not  even  the  blind  or  the  cover  of  the  dressing-table  — 
nothing. 


The  Rolling  Stone 9 

The  moment  was  coming,  the  terrible  moment  when  he 
must  call. 

He  would  count  one,  two,  three,  and  then  — 

He  counted  slowly,  a  pause  between  each  word, 
and  his  noisy,  childish  voice  was  a  mere  thread  of 
sound. 

"  Bogey !  " 

And  again,  "  Bogey  !  " 

And  yet  again. 

His  two  hands  held  each  other  tightly  and  he  sat  very 
still.  The  least  movement  might  draw  attention  to  him; 
but  if  he,  as  it  were  sank  into  the  night,  became  a  part 
of  the  furniture,  he  might  be  unobserved.  He  held  his 
breath,  straining  his  hearing.  He  was  ready,  he  was 
tensely  expectant. 

What  was  that? 

He  had  caught  a  faint  sound,  but  it  was  not  from  be- 
yond the  door,  it  was  in  the  room  itself.  His  nerves 
thrilled  in  earnest.  At  the  bottom  of  his  sceptical  soul  he 
had  cherished  a  doubt  of  Bogey,  but  the  doubt  vanished 
before  this  little  definite  sound.  His  skin  turned  goose- 
flesh,  he  tried  to  pierce  the  shadowy  greyness.  He  was 
so  very  large,  sitting  upright  with  hunched  knees,  so 
visible  in  his  white  nightshirt.  He  seemed  to  himself 
simply  immense.  Bogey  could  not  possibly  miss  him. 

He  rallied  his  forces.  He  was  afraid,  but  he  must  not 
mind  his  fear.  Afraid  or  not,  he  must  face  what  was 
coming.  As  he  so  resolved  his  fear  seemed  to  grow  less. 
He  began  to  look  about  him,  looked  with  sharp  glances, 
and  presently  he  had  located  the  noise,  the  little  stir  of 
movement.  Bogey  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
near  the  bed  in  which  Richard  slept. 

He  heard  a  light  thud,  and  his  heart  bounded,  then  fell 
to  quiet  beating. 


10 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Tommy ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  then,  reproachfully, 
"Oh,  Tommy!" 

The  kitten  had  ensconced  itself  in  a  forbidden  nest.  It 
had  hidden  itself  from  the  many  children  of  the  house  — 
from  baby's  unconscionable  affection,  from  Harry's 
dominance  —  had  nestled  down  between  the  pillows  of 
Richard's  bed  until  only  one  spot  of  warm  blackness 
could  be  seen  from  above.  Harry,  undressing  and  getting 
into  bed,  had  not  noticed  it.  His  cry  had  roused  it,  had 
suggested  that  its  downy  hiding-place  was  discovered; 
and,  unwilling,  with  the  yawning  of  a  pink-lined  mouth, 
with  stretching  of  fine  claws,  it  had  stepped  out  and 
jumped. 

"  Oh,  Tommy,  you  naughty  cat,  you  know  you  aren't 
'lowed  here ! " 

He  had  forgotten  Bogey ;  the  sinfulness  of  Tommy 
filled  his  six-year-old  mind  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else. 
He  had  got  out  of  bed,  he  had  turned  Tommy  —  soft, 
cuddly,  pin-pricky  Tommy  —  out  of  the  room.  He 
pushed  him  over  the  top  stair,  scolding  him  a  little,  telling 
him  to  go  down,  to  go  down  quickly  or  mother  would  catch 
him. 

Tommy  was  very  naughty.  He  knew  he  oughtn't  to 
come  into  the  bedrooms.  He  deserved  to  be  beaten. 

Harry  got  back  into  bed  thinking  he  should  have  beaten 
Tommy  so  that  'nother  time  he  would  have  'membered. 
But  it  was  too  late  now.  Tommy  had  run  over  that  top 
stair  and  over  all  the  others  as  far  as  Harry  could  see. 
He  had  gone  down,  down  into  the  dark. 

And  suddenly  he  remembered  Bogey,  who  was  down 
there  in  the  dark.  Tommy  had  run  down  to  him.  He 
had  not  miau-ed ;  he  had  not  minded  a  bit,  not  a  bit. 

Cats  were  very  brave. 


The  Rolling  Stone 11 

II 

Jack  Tremaine  had  come  to  spend  the  half-holiday  with 
Harry,  and  they  had  spent  it  in  the  garden,  of  which 
Harry  was  proud  because  it  consisted  of  a  long  piece  at 
the  back  and  an  extra  strip,  a  strip  at  the  side.  His 
father  had  bought  the  land  and  built  the  house.  No  other 
house  in  the  road  had  more  garden  than  the  straight 
piece  at  the  back.  The  Kings,  however,  had  not  only  the 
straight  piece  of  grass,  with  vegetable-beds  and  a  chicken- 
run  but,  between  that  and  No.  13  Parkside,  a  yard  and  a 
wild  bit;  and  in  the  wild  bit  were  trees  and  a  summer- 
house.  Harry's  father  had  built  the  summer-house  and 
Harry  had  helped.  On  the  roof  Mr.  King  had  set  a  dove- 
cot, and  the  cooing  inhabitants  of  it  had  always  inter- 
ested Harry. 

"  Let's  play  pirates,"  said  Jack. 

It  being  Harry's  garden,  he  felt  it  was  for  him  to  say 
how  they  should  spend  their  time.  Besides  —  pirates ! 
He  disapproved  of  pirates. 

"  Let's  be  a  man-of-war  —  like  the  Lord  —  and  catch 
the  pirates." 

Jack  was  dubious.  He  had  never  heard  of  playing 
"  Man-of-war."  He  didn't  believe  there  was  such  a  game. 
He  tried  to  think  why  "  Pirates  "  was  fascinating  and 
Harry,  watching  his  freckled  face  with  the  snub  nose  and 
grey-green  eyes,  knew  that  he  was  trying,  heavy  fashion, 
to  get  his  own  way.  Jack  often  tried  but  he  was  slow, 
he  never  managed  it. 

"  Pirates,"  said  Jack,  "  catch  sailors  and  make  them 
walk  the  plank." 

Behind, the  water-butt  was  a  number  of  boards.  To 
drag  them  out,  balance  them  on  bricks,  make  the  prisoners 
walk  them  —  yes,  a  point  in  favour  of  piracy. 


12 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Battleships,"  said  Harry,  "  catch  the  pirates,  they  al- 
ways catch  them.  Then  fjiey  hang  them  from  the  yard- 
arm." 

Hanging  from  the  yard-arm  was  not  so  thrilling  —  even 
if  you  saw  them  dangling  in  a  row  —  as  walking  the  plank. 
Harry  threw  in  a  further  attraction.  "  Men  on  battle- 
ships wear  uniform." 

"  You  haven't  any." 

"  Have,  then." 

"Where?" 

"  Never  you  mind." 

The  promise  of  uniform  turned  the  scale.  Jack  would 
play  battleships,  even  though  there  wasn't  such  a  game,  if 
playing  it  meant  a  warlike  appearance.  Under  Harry's 
directions  he  dragged  out  the  boards  and  improvised  a 
deck. 

"  The  look-out's  up  there,"  said  Harry,  with  a  blink 
at  the  dovecot.  He  had  often  wished  to  see  where  the 
birds  laid  their  eggs  and  what  baby-doves  were  like.  The 
dovecot,  though  forbidden,  was  accessible,  and  who  was 
to  know? 

"  And  I'm  captain !  " 

Jack  reflected,  a  little  sourly,  that  Harry  was  always 
captain.  It  wasn't  fair !  However  he,  Jack,  was  growing 
quickly ;  he  would  soon  be  bigger  than  Harry  and  then 
they  would  see.  He  pushed  the  last  plank  into  place  and 
stood  back  to  admire  the  resultant  bristle.  Difficult  to 
walk  on  but  a  real  wooden  deck ! 

Harry,  who  had  disappeared  into  the  house  on  mys- 
terious business,  returned  carrying  a  lumpy  bundle.  He 
had  trotted  from  room  to  room  annexing  properties. 
The  red  silk  curtain-ties  in  the  drawing-room  would  make 
soldier-sashes;  Richard's  striped  jersey,  his  father's  scar- 


The  Rolling  Stone 13 

let  chest-protector,  Mrs.  King's  Paisley  shawl,  his  sister's 
hair-ribbons  —  he  stuffed  them  into  the  bundle.  More- 
over, as  guns  and  ammunition  were  imperative,  he  laid 
Bet's  money-box  under  contribution.  The  sixpence  was 
difficult  to  extract;  it  needed  patience  and  a  pair  of 
scissors. 

He  had  also  to  provision  the  ship.  If  only  his  mother 
would  go  up  to  her  room  for  a  little ! 

"  I've  had  a  hard  morning's  work,"  he  heard  her  tell 
Mrs.  Clarke  of  next  door. 

"Baking,  I  suppose?"  said  Mrs.  Clarke. 

"  On  my  feet  since  six ;  but  I  never  sit  down  till  I'm 
done." 

"  It's  the  best  plan." 

He  looked  through  the  crack  of  the  scullery  door  and 
saw  her  wiping  her  hands  on  the  towel.  That  meant  that 
she  had  finished  washing-up.  He  slipped  into  the  boot- 
cupboard  and  waited  till  she  came  out  —  till,  indeed,  he 
heard  the  stairs  creak  under  her  tread. 

In  the  larder  were  freshly  baked  rock-cakes. 

Also  apples  and  jam-tarts!  Strawberry  jam  —  oh, 
golly! 

The  boys  turned  themselves  into  a  press-gang  and  col- 
lected the  family  pets.  A  ruffled  tom-cat,  a  goat,  the 
monkey  from  Jamaica,  and  two  protesting  hens  were 
brought  on  board  to  serve  as  crew. 

Harry's  duty  to  con  the  ship!  From  the  dovecot  he 
would  obtain  a  wide  sea-view,  get  an  early  glimpse  of  mer- 
chant prizes,  of  pirates,  corsairs,  and  other  interesting 
water-craft.  All,  indeed,  might  have  gone  well  with  that 
particular  game  if  his  roving  glance  had  not  lighted  on  a 
pot  of  green  paint  which  had  been  left  by  his  father  on 
the  bench  by  the  kitchen  door.  To  leave  it  sunning 
itself  in  peaceful  inactivity,  was  impossible.  Harry  did 


14  The  llolling  Stone 

not  know  what  he  would  do  with  it;  nevertheless  he  pro- 
vided for  emergencies  by  carrying  it  with  him  into  the 
clovecot. 

For  some  time  the  pursuit  of  marauders  kept  him  busy, 
but  when  the  ammunition  was  expended  and  the  provi- 
sions had  disappeared  he  found  himself  at  a  loss.  The 
pirates  were  dangling  in  a  row,  and  Jack  had  gone  home 
to  tea.  He  looked  about  him  for  something  on  which  to 
expend  his  still  unexhausted  energy  and,  looking,  saw  the 
pot  of  paint. 

He  glanced  from  the  paint  to  the  doves. 

Grey  was  a  dull  colour.  The  poor  birds  couldn't  help 
being  grey;  but  they  would,  of  course,  rather  be  some- 
thing else,  something  brighter. 

Green  was  brighter. 

During  the  afternoon  Mrs.  King  had  more  than  once 
sent  a  thoughtful  glance  down  the  garden.  Harry  was 
making  "  a  rare  old  litter  "  but,  for  once,  did  not  seem 
to  be  in  mischief.  She  knew  her  larder  had  been  raided, 
and  for  that  would  in  good  time  see  that  he  was  punished ; 
meanwhile  she  could  think  placidly  of  him  as  busy  and 
within  reach.  After  all,  he  had  not  taken  many  of  the 
rock-cakes. 

When  he  came  in  to  tea  she  noticed  specks  of  green  on 
hands  and  clothes.  That  pot  of  paint  ought  not  to  have 
been  left  on  the  bench.  Still,  no  harm  seemed  to  have 
been  done. 

"  Come  here  and  wash  your  hands." 

As  he  stood  at  the  sink,  scraping  and  scrubbing,  he 
chattered  of  pirates  —  Algerine  pirates.  He  had  hanged 
all  he  could  catch  —  all  his  sisters'  dolls.  They  were 
hanging  out  there  in  a  row,  and  he  thought  of  their 
fluttering  garments,  their  loose  legs  and  arms.  A  most 
satisfactory  afternoon. 


The  Rolling  Stone  15 

His  mother,  unsuspicious  of  the  pirates'  identity,  stood 
listening.  For  once  he  had  not  been  up  to  mischief,  he 
had  been  a  good  boy. 

Suddenly,  however,  she  bethought  her  of  the  raided 
larder. 

He  must  learn  he  should  not  go  behind  her  back  and 
help  himself;  but  he  was  getting  big.  No  longer  possible 
to  lay  him  across  her  knee.  Necessary,  though,  to  keep 
the  upper  hand. 

The  boy,  grubby  paws  in  water,  innocent  face  a-lather, 
was  at  her  mercy.  She  struck  him  sharply  across  the 
cheek. 

"  What's  that  for?  "  he  cried,  but  she  had  turned  and 
was  crossing  the  kitchen  on  her  way  to  the  tea-table. 
Hastily  he  wiped  off  the  soap  and  followed.  "  What  was 
that  for?" 

"  Oh,  you  know !  "  She  was  already  busy  apportioning 
the  slices  of  bread  and  dripping.  He  must  know,  and  if 
he  didn't,  let  him  think  it  out. 

Harry  went  to  his  place.  This  was  not  the  first  time 
that  his  mother,  apparently  for  no  reason  whatever,  had 
thus  taken  him  unawares.  Why?  His  conscience  was 
clear.  He  had  done  nothing  —  a  prick  —  well,  nothing, 
at  least,  of  which  she  knew! 

His  mother  was  undoubtedly  a  person  to  be  avoided. 

Not  until  the  following  day  did  the  reason  for  those 
paint-specks  on  Harry's  clothes  and  face  come  to  light. 
The  doves  had  not  taken  kindly  to  their  coats  of  spring 
green.  Harry,  confronted  with  the  dead  birds,  was  sorry 
and  said  so  —  sorry,  not  that  he  had  painted  them  but 
that  they  had  been  so  foolish  as  to  die.  How  could  a  boy 
guess  that  doves  were  so  delicate? 

"  Henry,  come  upstairs  with  me." 

"  I  don't  want  to  come."     He  thought  of  the  strap 


16  The  Rolling  Stone 

that  hung  by  the  bed-head  in  his  father's  room.  "  And 
if  you  drag  me  up,  I'll  kick  your  shins,  I  will." 

"Will  you?     We'll  see  about  that." 

Mr.  King,  laying  on  stripes  with  right  goodwill,  re- 
flected that  you  never  knew  what  Harry  would  be  up  to 
next. 

ni 

"  If  you'd  give  me  the  money,  mother,  I'd  buy  the  holly 
and  mistletoe  for  you." 

Three  days  before  Christmas  and  no  sign  of  evergreens. 
Could  it  be  his  parents  had  forgotten? 

"  We  can't/ afford  it  this  year." 

Why  couldn't  they?  He  had  seen  berried  branches  be- 
ing carried  into  other  houses.  Why  couldn't  his  people 
have  them? 

"  James's  illness,"  said  his  mother,  lining  patty-pans 
with  pastry,  **  and  then  your  father  hasn't  had  the  rise 
that  he  expected,  and  there's  such  a  lot  of  you." 

James  had  been  ill  a  long  time.  He  had  stayed  home 
from  school  and  had  lain  in  bed.  Harry  hadn't  seen  him 
for  weeks  and  weeks.  Did  staying  in  bed  cost  money? 
Of  course,  there  were  a  lot  of  them  —  Richard,  James, 
Himself,  Bet,  Nancy,  and  little  Mab;  but  what  had  that 
to  do  with  decorating  the  house  for  Christmas  ? 

"  You  want  such  a  lot  of  boots  and  shoes,"  volunteered 
his  mother  as  she  put  a  dab  of  mincemeat  in  the  middle  of 
each  patty-pan.  The  dark  speckled  lumps  were  very 
small.  Harry  watched  her  with  a  feeling  that  something 
was  wrong.  A  mince-pie  should  be  large,  and  full  of 
mincemeat ! 

His  mother  cut  rounds  of  pastry  and  fitted  them  over 
the  dark  lumps.  "  Such  a  lot  of  boots  and  shoes,"  she 
sighed,  "  and  everything  costs  money." 


The  Rolling  Stone  17 

But  you  didn't  decorate  the  house  with  boots  and  shoes, 
and  as  to  the  evergreens,  why  should  they  cost  money? 

Harry  would  find  some.  Findings  were  keepings,  and 
he  fancied  that  he  knew  where  to  look. 

Holly,  of  course,  grew  on  bushes  and  could  be  picked, 
but  he  was  not  sure  about  mistletoe.  He  had  never  seen 
it  growing.  Still,  it  was  just  a  plant,  it  must  grow  some- 
where! He  set  out  for  the  residential  part  of  the  town, 
and,  looking  over  garden-walls,  saw  many  bushes  and  trees 
of  holly,  but  not  one  —  not  so  much  as  a  single  plant  — 
of  mistletoe.  Should  he  make  do  with  what  offered  or 
should  he  go  further  afield?  .  .  . 

While  he  debated  a  greengrocer's  cart  came  up  the  road. 
It  paused  before  the  side-door  of  a  substantial  house  and, 
while  the  man  was  delivering  his  goods,  Harry  lightened  it 
of  a  fine  bunch  of  Christmas  greens. 

How  pleased  his  parents  would  be !  They  would  be  able 
to  decorate  the  house,  make  it  like  all  the  other  houses  in 
the  road.  They  could  put  holly-sprigs  over  the  pictures 
and  hang  mistletoe  from  the  coloured  globe  in  the  hall. 
There  would  be  holly,  too,  for  the  pudding,  a  nice  berried 
bit. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  holly?"  His  father's  voice 
did  not  sound  pleased.  Could  anything  have  happened  to 
put  him  out? 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know;  I  just  got  it." 

"  Where,  Henry?  "  said  Mrs.  King. 

"  Down  the  road."  Harry  hoped  his  reply  suggested 
hedges  of  holly  in  a  country  lane,  hedges  that  were  free 
to  any  boy. 

'*  Was  it  given  to  you?  " 

As  if  any  one  would  give  you  a  big  bunch  of  Christmas 
greens !  "  I  thought  you'd  be  glad  of  it." 

"  Was  it  come  by  honestly?  " 


18  The  Rolling  Stone 

What  a  fuss  about  nothing!  If  he  had  realized  that 
they  were  so  particular  he  would  have  broken  up  the 
bunch,  made  a  disorderly  bundle  of  it,  and  said  he  had 
gone  into  the  fields  and  picked  it. 

"  You  young  limb,"  said  his  father,  "  where  did  you 
get  it?  " 

Harry,  taken  by  surprise,  told  the  truth.  Old  Short, 
the  greengrocer,  had  lots  of  holly,  lots  and  lots ;  he  would 
not  miss  one  small  bunch. 

"  It  is  not  that !  "  Mr.  King  explained  that  they  would 
rather  have  gone  without  Christmas  decorations  than  that 
Harry  should  have  taken  the  evergreens.  "  It's  stealing," 
he  said;  but  Harry  thought  that  if  he  could  have  per- 
suaded them  he  had  picked  the  holly  in  the  fields,  they 
would  have  put  it  on  the  walls  and  been  glad  of  it.  It 
was  only  stealing  because  he  had  been  found  out. 

After  tea  he  was  made  to  carry  the  bunch  to  Mr. 
Short's  shop,  confess  what  he  had  done,  and  hand  it  over. 
His  father  said  that  would  be  good  for  him. 

"  I  can't  see,"  said  Harry,  "  why  other  people  should 
have  holly  and  mistletoe  at  Christmas  if  we  can't." 

"  We  can't  have  everything  we  want,"  said  the  father. 
They  were  passing  an  old  red  manor-house  set  back  among 
the  trees,  and  he  pointed  to  it.  "  For  instance,  we  can't 
all  expect  to  live  in  a  house  like  that." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  The  wild  bright  eyes,  slightly  aslant 
in  the  broad  face,  looked  from  the  house  with  its  sweeps 
of  lawn,  its  proud  outlook  over  the  surrounding  country, 
to  the  man  at  his  side. 

"  It  stands  to  reason,"  said  Mr.  King. 
'  The  men  in  the  big  houses  get  what  they  want  and 
the  others  don't?" 

"  Nobody  gets  what  he  wants."     A  man  wanted  things 


The  Rolling  Stone  19 

for  himself  —  love,  gratified  ambition ;  instead  he  got  chil- 
dren and  had  to  work  for  them,  to  work  all  day  and  over- 
time. "  We  all  learn,  at  last,  to  do  without." 

Doing  without,  thought  Harry,  was  poor  fun.  He  did 
not  intend  to  try  it  —  not  more,  that  is,  than  he  could 
help.  Parents  made  you  go  without,  but  when  you  were 
grown  up  you  could  do  as  you  pleased.  When  he  had  a 
house  of  his  own  he  would  decorate  every  room  with  holly 
and  mistletoe  and  he  would  not  pay  for  a  single  sprig,  not 
one. 

Mr.  Short's  shop  was  on  Main  Street,  and  many  an 
apple  had  Harry  prigged  when  the  greengrocer  was  meas- 
uring out  paraffin  at  the  back.  Mr.  King  led  the  way  in. 
and  the  culprit,  clutching  the  evergreens  in  chilblainy 
hands,  followed.  He  did  not  like  crossing  the  threshold. 
If  his  father  had  not  been  there  he  would  have  thrown 
the  bundle  in  at  the  door  and  run  away.  What  would 
Mr.  Short  do  to  him? 

A  barrel  of  apples  just  inside  the  door,  farther  on  a 
crate  of  oranges ;  so  easy  to  pocket  one  or  two. 

But  he  mustn't. 

Mr.  Short  tossed  the  bunch  of  evergreens  —  his, 
Harry's  bunch,  the  bunch  that  was  to  have  made  festive 
his  home  —  on  to  a  pile  at  the  back  of  the  shop.  "  If 
boys  always  had  to  give  back  what  they  helped  themselves 
to,"  he  said,  "  my  place  'ud  be  pretty  full,"  but  he  thanked 
Mr.  King  and  said  that  was  the  way  to  bring  boys  up  and 
no  mistake. 

Harry  was  leaning  against  a  crate  of  oranges.  If  they 
went  on  talking  he  knew  that  he  would  help  himself. 
He  didn't  want  to,  but  the  crate  was  open  and  his  fingers 
were  sliding  over  the  rough  roundness  of  the  fruit. 

His  father  wouldn't  like  him  to  take  the  oranges,     He 


20  The  Rolling  Stone 

had  disapproved  so  greatly  of  his  taking  the  holly.  It 
had  seemed  to  hurt  him  that  Harry  should  have  taken 
that  holly. 

He  must  be  more  careful. 

You  didn't  learn  to  do  without,  you  helped  yourself 
to  what  you  wanted,  but  you  did  it  carefully,  very,  very 
carefully. 

When  Richard  came  up  to  bed  that  night  he  paused 
just  inside  the  door  and  sniffed.  "  Oranges !  "  said  he. 
"  Who's  got  oranges  ?  " 

"  There's  one  for  you."  Harry  sat  up  in  bed.  "  Here 
you  are  —  catch  !  " 

Though  Richard  accepted  the  fruit  he  was  suspicious. 
"  Where  did  you  get  them  ?  " 

Harry  had  his  explanation  pat.  "Boy  at  school," 
said  he. 


Chapter  II 


HARRY,  trying  to  look  as  if  wholly  occupied  with 
his  dinner,  was  listening  to  the  conversation  of 
his  elders.  He  had  signalized  his  first  day  at 
the  new  school  —  the  school  that  was  for  boys  only  — 
by  a  fight,  and  Richard  was  telling  about  it.  He  wanted 
to  hear  what  Richard  would  say. 

Before  him,  on  a  grey-blue  landscape  plate,  was  a 
helping  of  meat  and  potatoes.  Presently  he  would  nudge 
his  mother  and  ask  for  more.  He  was  such  a  hungry  boy. 

"  When  I  came  into  the  room,"  said  Richard,  "  Henry 
was  sitting  on  the  bench ;  but  his  face  had  that  look, 
that  sort  of  set  look  —  you  know  — " 

Mr.  King  nodded.     He  knew. 

"  The  big  boys  were  telling  Two  Puddings  he  mustn't 
put  up  with  cheek  from  a  kid." 

"  Two  Puddings,  as  you  call  him,  is  bigger  than 
Henry?  "  The  little  feeling  of  elation  in  that  one  of  the 
brood  had  proved  stronger  than  another  man's  son  was 
wrong.  The  old  Adam  again.  He  must  wrestle  with  it, 
put  it  down. 

"  Oh  yes,  he's  the  same  age  as  James." 

The  family  looked  at  James,  who  was  two  years  older 
and  half  a  head  taller  than  Harry.  "  Bigger'n  me,"  said 
James. 

"  After  a  bit,  old  Two  Puddings  came  on,  swinging  his 
arms  and,  when  he  came  close,  Henry  jumped  up  and 
hit  him.  He  hit  him  on  the  chin  and  Two  Puddings 

21 


The  Rolling  Stone 


went  down.  The  boys  were  awfully  surprised  and  they 
burst  out  laughing.  He  couldn't  stand  that,  so  he  got 
up  and  came  for  Henry  again,  and  again  Henry  knocked 
him  down." 

Mr.  King  looked  along  the  table  —  three  boys  one  side, 
three  girls  on  the  other,  his  children;  and  his  glance 
came  to  rest  on  Harry.  Richard  was  handsome  and 
clever;  James  was  all  right.  But  Harry?  He  wasn't 
clever  —  at  least,  not  at  his  books  —  and  he  certainly 
wasn't  handsome.  The  face  was  too  heavily  boned,  the 
well-cut  mouth  too  wide,  but  there  was  a  something  about 
the  boy,  some  quality.  Harry  was  —  that  was  it  —  he 
was  alive  ! 

"  What  was  the  fight  about,  Henry  ?  " 

Harry  put  the  last  bit  of  potato  into  his  mouth  and 
glanced  at  the  big  vegetable-dish.  "  He  said  my  mother 
made  my  breeches." 

The  father  could  not  see  more  than  an  inch  or  two 
of  the  garments  in  question,  but  the  pattern  seemed  fa- 
miliar. "  Well,  didn't  she?  " 

Harry's  straight  brows  came  into  a  point  over  narrowed 
eyelids.  "  I  won't  have  any  one  say  so." 

The  breeches,  cut  from  a  pair  of  Mr.  King's  trousers, 
were  a  sore  point.  Other  boys  had  suits,  suits  bought 
at  a  shop.  Two  Puddings  had  one  of  corduroy  velvet  — 
real  corduroy  velvet.  His  mother,  when  he  asked  if  he 
could  not  have  one  like  it,  had  said  it  was  out  of  the 
question  —  that  Two  Puddings'  father,  Mr.  Chapman, 
was  rich,  had  the  biggest  draper's  shop  in  the  town. 

Harry  wondered  why  his  father  wasn't  rich.  Was  it 
because  he  sat  in  an  office  all  day  instead  of  selling  things 
in  a  shop?  You  got  lots  of  money  selling  things,  you 
were  getting  money  all  the  time.  Besides  that,  there 
were  the  things  in  the  shop.  If  you  wanted  them,  you 


The  Rolling  Stone 23 

could  take  them.  In  Two  Puddings'  Shop  there  was  a 
window  full  of  suits.  No  doubt  they  had  gone  to  it  and 
just  taken  out  the  real  velvet  corduroy.  How  Harry 
wished  that  his  father  had  a  shop ! 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Mr.  King,  clearing  his  throat,  "  I'm 
afraid,  Henry,  that  you've  made  a  bad  beginning  at  your 
new  school." 

The  look  of  ingenuous  surprise  that  flitted  over  the 
child's  face  showed  him  this  was  an  occasion  which  it 
was  his  duty  to  improve.  Heathens,  these  boys;  and 
that  in  spite  of  all  you  did  or  said. 

"  You  don't  suppose,  do  you,  that  fighting  is  the  way 
to  get  on?  " 

Harry's  eyes  grew  round.  The  whole  school  was  talk- 
ing of  the  fight ! 

"  Fighting  gets  you  into  the  master's  bad  books  and 
will  make  you  unpopular  among  the  boys." 

"  It  is  unchristian,"  contributed  Mrs.   King. 

"  Makes  you  feel  good,"  ventured  Harry,  looking  at  his 
father.  When  Two  Puddings  had  called  him  a 
"  mammy's  boy  "  and  asked  who  made  his  breeches,  he  had 
felt  very  hot  and  angry.  He  had  hated  Two  Puddings ; 
he  had  hit  him  as  hard  as  he  could,  hit  him  twice  and 
knocked  him  down.  Then  he,  Harry,  felt  all  right.  Two 
Puddings  wasn't  a  bad  chap  —  no,  in  spite  of  the  corduroy 
suit,  he  wasn't. 

"  You  mean,"  said  Mr.  King,  "  that  because  you  have 
won  you  feel  pleased  with  yourself?  " 

"  No,"  said  Harry.  That  wasn't  it.  You  were 
pleased  of  course,  pleased  to  have  won,  but  also  —  well, 
you  felt  good. 

"That,  my  lad,"  pursued  Mr.  King,  "is  just  what  is 
wrong  with  fighting.  A  boy  should  make  his  way  in  the 
world  by  hard  work  and  sticking  to  his  books,  not  by 


24  The  Rolling  Stone 

hurting  people  and  getting  the  better  of  them  and  glory- 
ing in  it." 

He  glanced  at  his  other  sons,  and  Harry  knew  that 
he  was  being  compared,  unfavourably,  with  those  meri- 
torious ones.  In  the  home  circle  they  were  the  shining 
lights,  he  the  person  who  got  all  the  kicks.  But  he 
didn't  do  things  in  order  to  be  bad;  in  fact,  he  meant 
to  be  good.  He  was  good  inside,  it  was  only  that  things 
happened.  Wherever  he  was  they  happened,  and  people 
blamed  him.  Really,  it  wasn't  fair. 

II 

Mr.  King,  just  home  from  the  office,  was  bending  over 
a  hen-coup  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  He  had  lifted  a 
spadeful  of  manure,  picked  out  the  worms  and  brought 
them  to  the  eager  chickens.  The  mother-bird  clucked, 
and  the  grey  chicks  picked  up  the  worms  and  ran  with 
tjhem  about  the  enclosed  space  that  was  their  world. 
Stimulating  food  —  worms  !  The  chicks  would  grow  all 
the  bigger  for  that  spadeful.  He  must  remember  to 
give  them  one  daily. 

A  crunch  of  feet  on  the  cinder-path  made  him  look  up. 
A  little  compact  figure,  erect  as  an  oak  yet  flowing  in 
movement  that  was  unusually  swift,  was  coming  towards 
him.  He  watched  it  with  an  indulgent  eye.  A  young 
turk,  if  ever  there  was  one ! 

"  Well,  Henry,  what's  up  with  you  ?  " 

Evident  from  the  brightness  of  Harry's  eyes  that  some- 
thing of  an  exciting  nature  had  occurred.  The  boy 
plunged  into  his  tale.  Two  Puddings  —  Chapman  —  had 
been  late  for  school,  but  when  he  came  — 

"  Oh,  father,  he  was  on  a  velocipede,  and  it  was  hi* 
own.  It  had  a  big  wheel  in  front  and  a  little  one  at  the 


The  Rolling  Stone  25 

back,  and  he  can  ride  it.  He  let  me  try,  and  I  want  — 
oh,  I  want  one,  father." 

"  You  must  think  I'm  made  of  money-" 

The  brown  hen,  espying  a  worm  which,  overlooked,  was 
giving  signs  of  life,  called  to  her  little  srreedies.  The  easier 
running  of  the  tiny  feet  pleased  Mr.  King,  and  he  smiled. 

Harry,  watching  the  bearded  face,  took  the  smile  for 
a  sign  of  yielding.  He  broke  into  entreaties.  If  his 
father  would  only  give  him  a  velocipede  — 

Mr.  King  wished  that  he  could.  The  worst  of  narrow 
means  was  that  you  must  deny,  not  only  the  children, 
but  yourself.  Nothing  would  have  given  him  greater 
pleasure  than  to  gratify  their  legitimate  desires.  Better 
for  them,  of  course,  that  he  could  not;  but  he  wished 
that  sometimes,  just  once  in  a  way  — 

Harry  wanted  that  velocipede  so  badly.  Coming  third 
in  the  family,  the  poor  little  chap  did  not  get  much. 
Cast-off  clothes,  old  school-books,  the  leavings  of  the 
others.  It  was  hardly  fair. 

"  I'll  see,"  he  said  at  last,  and  Harry  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that  he  had  heard  aright. 

Ill 

'.  •  ••       \  ' 
"  Richard,  mother  wants  you  to  help  her." 

"What's  up?" 

"  My  tricycle  has  come." 

"What?" 

"  It's  in  a  crate,  and  the  crate  is  so  big  it  won't  go 
into  the  yard." 

Richard  put  his  books  aside  and  came.  Harry  was  a 
lucky  dog.  If  he,  Richard,  had  known  that  velocipedes 
were  going  he  would  have  put  in  for  one.  Even  a  second- 
hand article,  which  was  a  tricycle  at  that,  was  better 


26  The  Rolling  Stone 

than  nothing.  He  felt  an  elder  brotherly  interest  in  the 
crate.  What  was  Harry's  was  also,  in  a  sense,  his. 

He  found  his  mother  helping  a  carman  to  manoeuvre 
the  crate  into  the  drying-yard.  The  big  wooden  case 
seemed  to  have  particularly  hard  and  sharp  corners ;  it 
was  also  weighty. 

"  Quarter  of  a  ton,  I  says,"  remarked  the  carman. 

Released  from  its  wrappings,  the  new  acquisition  justi- 
fied him  by  a  certain  cumbrousness.  The  tyres  were 
solid,  the  chains  and  ironwork  of  a  clumsy  make.  The 
tricycle  had  been  built  for  an  invalid  gentleman  who, 
having  gone  the  way  of  wings,  no  longer  needed  it.  On 
its  being  offered  for  sale  second  hand,  Mr.  King,  by  now 
repenting  a  weak  moment,  had  seen  his  chance. 

"  It  will  do  for  Henry  to  practise  on,"  he  said. 


IV 

"  There's  Uncle  Bob,"  said  Harry,  "  I  could  go  and 
see  him." 

"  Shoo ! "  said  Mrs.  King,  "  of  course  you  can't." 
Uncle  Bob  lived  at  Bristol,  and  Bristol  was  forty-five  miles 
by  road,  too  big  a  journey  for  a  boy  of  ten.  She  had 
seen  Chapman  on  his  velocipede,  had  heard  it  said  that 
he  rode  round  and  about,  did  as  much  as  six  miles  in 
a  day.  A  good  boy  that,  one  who  would  never  cause 
his  parents  anxiety.  She  glanced  at  her  wild,  dark  son. 
Forty-five  miles ! 

«  Well,"  said  Mr.  King,  "  I  don't  know  .  .  ." 

She  threw  up  her  hands.  "  If  you're  going  to  egg 
him  on  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  not  egging  him  on."  He  didn't  want  the  boy 
turned  into  a  mollycoddle  because  his  mother  was  afraid! 
"But  Bristol  would  be  only  a  day's  journey  on  this," 


The  Rolling  Stone 27 

he  tapped  the  tricycle,  "  and  if  he  knows  a  boy  who  would 
go  with  him  .  .  ." 

The  elders  of  the  family  had  gathered  to  see  Harry  oil 
the  machine.  He  had  already  bestowed  more  of  the  lubri- 
cant on  his  person  than  on  the  tricycle;  and  more  on 
both,  Mrs.  King  thought,  than  could  have  been  in  the  little 
oilcan.  He  looked  up,  drawing  a  hand  across  his  brow  and 
leaving  behind  a  glistening  smear.  "  Jack  would  go." 

"  His  mother  wouldn't  let  him." 

But  Harry  knew  better.  "  His  mother  lets  him  do 
things." 


"  Five  shillings,  Henry,  will  be  enough  to  take  you 
there  and  back.  Put  down  on  this  piece  of  paper  what 
you  spend  and  don't  let  it  be  more  than  you  can  help." 

Mr.  King,  a  little  uneasy  lest,  after  all,  harm  might 
befall  his  Benjamin,  walked  with  Harry  to  the  door. 
In  the  road  Jack  Tremaine  was  standing  by  a  new  machine. 
He  looked,  with  his  honest  freckled  face  and  straight 
glance,  as  staunch  a  comrade  as  any  father  could  wish 
his  son.  Mr.  King  glanced  at  the  sky.  "  July  weather," 
he  said,  "  you  ought  to  have  a  pleasant  run.  Now, 
don't  forget  —  a  ship-chandler's  shop  on  the  quay,  name 
of  Hall.  Well,  give  my  love  to  your  uncle." 

Harry  sat  his  four  hundredweight  of  clumsy  contrivance 
as  if  it  had  been  a  high-mettled  steed.  His  heart  was 
full.  This  was  not  a  game,  he  and  Jack  were  not  making 
believe ;  they  were  actually  starting  off  by  themselves 
to  see  the  world. 

Ho  had  thought  he  would  never,  never  get  the  tricvcle. 
His  father  had  told  him  that  the  Organization  was  looking 
for  it.  A  queer  thing,  the  Organization.  You  never  saw 
it,  yet  it  brought  eggs  and  butter  and  hams  from  farms 


28 The  Rolling  Stone 

up  and  down  the  line  and  it  put  them  in  your  larder. 
His  father  had  told  him  that  every  railway-station  was 
at  a  town  and  the  Organization  looked  in  the  shops  of 
those  towns  for  what  you  wanted.  The  Organization 
lived,  he  thought,  in  the  railway-stations;  it  must  live 
somewhere. 

It  didn't  buy  things  for  everybody,  only  for  people 
like  his  father,  who  worked  for  the  railway.  His  father 
had  said  it  was  a  wonderful  thing,  that  it  made  the  money 
go  twice  as  far.  His  mother  said  that  might  be;  but, 
for  her  part,  she  liked  to  see  things  before  she  bought 
them. 

The  Organization  had  been  a  long  time  looking  for  the 
tricycle.  It  was  really,  of  course,  looking  for  a  veloci- 
pede, and  Harry  was  sorry  that  no  second-hand  boy's  ve- 
locipedes were  to  be  found.  However,  he  was  lucky  to  get 
anything.  Richard,  who  was  going  to  Cheeley  Grammar 
School  next  term,  would  have  given  his  eyes  for  it ;  Harry 
knew  by  the  way  his  brother  had  examined  it,  that  he 
would. 

"  I  say,  Bear !  " —  Bear  was  Harry's  nickname  — "  I 
felt  a  spot  of  rain." 

A  drop  had  splashed  on  Harry's  face.  He  looked  at 
the  hurrying  clouds.  "  I  don't  expect  it  will  be  much." 

"  Mother  said  she  didn't  believe  we  should  have  it  fine." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Something  about  July  rains." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  back?  " 

He  scouted  the  idea.     "  Rather  not." 

The  boys  buttoned  up  their  coats,  slanted  their  heads 
to  meet  the  drive  of  the  rain  and  pedalled  on.  Rain  or 
shine,  they  would  get  to  Bristol  before  they  turned. 

Before  long,  however,  the  water  was  squishing  out  of 
the  seats  of  their  knickers.  Harry  knew  by  experience 


The  Rolling  Stone  29 

that  the  rub  of  wet  cloth  cuts  the  skin,  and  at  Chippen- 
ham  they  compromised  with  fate  by  seeking  refuge  in  a 
little  tavern. 

A  motherly  woman,  after  stripping  them  by  her  kitchen 
fire,  sent  them  flying  naked  overstairs.  In  the  downy 
depths  of  a  four-poster  they  slept  till  skies  had  brightened 
and  their  clothes  were  dry.  When  the  reckoning  came, 
Harry  discovered  that  his  five  shillings  had  not  been 
calculated  on  a  basis  of  tavern  meals  and  beds. 

The  weather  on  the  following  day  alternated  between 
wet  and  fine.  As  the  boys  were  obliged  to  spend  a  good 
deal  of  time  sheltering  from  showers,  their  journey  was 
protracted  beyond  what  careful  parents  had  thought  pos- 
sible. On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  they  stopped 
outside  the  windows  of  a  cookshop  to  discuss  how  Harry's 
last  shilling  could  be  spent  to  the  best  advantage.  The 
choice  lay  between  hot  boiled  ham  and  a  meat-pie. 
Harry's  stomach  craved  the  former.  Having  been  on 
short  commons  all  day,  he  was  fiercely  hungry.  Clutch- 
ing the  coin  in  a  small  hard  hand,  he  sniffed  the  appetizing 
smell. 

"  Crikey !  I  feel  as  if  I  could  eat  the  shop !  Come 
on  in." 

As  he  spoke  a  stout  woman  jogged  his  elbow  with  her 
market-basket  and  the  shilling  was  jerked  out  of  his 
hand.  The  boys  were  standing  on  a  cellar-grating,  and 
the  coin  fell  between  the  bars  and  disappeared. 

A  cry  of  dismay  broke  from  Harry's  lips.  "  My  shill- 
ing, Jack  I "  and  he  rushed  into  the  shop. 

The  proprietor  was  a  big  fat  man  who  filled  all  the 
space  behind  the  counter.  He  looked  at  the  boys  with 
little  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  playing  at  hide-and-seek 
between  rolls  of  pale  fat.  To  their  story  he  listened  with 
a  smile.  Fine  story,  that !  He  hoped  they  didn't  expect 


30  The  Rolling  Stone 

him  to  believe  it?  Let  them  into  his  cellar  to  look  for 
what  wasn't  there?  He  knew  a  trick  worth  two  of  that. 
If  they  wanted  to  buy  anything  he'd  be  pleased  to  wait 
on  them ;  if  not,  let  them  clear  out  of  that  and  pretty 
quick  too,  or  he  would  send  for  a  policeman. 

Outside  the  town  Harry,  who  had  been  silent  for  some 
time,  called  a  halt.  "  You  stay  here  with  the  machines," 
he  said.  "  I  shan't  be  long." 

"  What  are  you  up  to,  Bear?  " 

"  I'm  going  back  for  my  shilling." 

"  Let  me  come,  too." 

"  No,  you  stay  here." 

An  hour  later  he  returned  carrying  a  large  pork  pie. 

"How  did  you  get  that,  Bear?" 

"  Oh,  I  just  took  it." 

The  boys  ate  till  they  were  satisfied.  "  You  wouldn't 
believe,"  said  Harry,  "  how  much  that  man  is  disliked. 
While  I  was  there  some  one  threw  a  stone  and  smashed 
his  window.  I  should  think  it  would  take  more  than  a 
shilling  to  mend  it." 

They  got  to  Bristol  late  that  night,  and  found  that 
Uncle  Bob,  having  heard  from  Mr.  King  that  they  were 
on  their  way,  was  grown  anxious  as  to  what  had  delayed 
them.  The  boys  were  very  dirty,  very  tired  —  too  tired 
to  do  more  than  roll  into  the  beds  Mr.  Hall's  housekeeper 
had  prepared. 

When,  a  day  or  two  later,  they  were  ready  to  return, 
Harry  asked  for  a  road-map.  He  wanted  to  plan  a 
different  route. 

"Why  not  go  back  the  way  you  came?" 

"  No  fun  in  that,  Uncle  Bob.  You  see,  we  know  the 
people  on  that  road." 

"  All  the  better  for  you." 

But  Harry  was  not  sure  that  he  agreed  with  Uncle  Bob. 


Chapter  III 


<t  "T'"  THINK,  Mr.  King,  that  your  son  is  doing  no  good 
to  himself  or  other  people  here.     He  should  go  to 

-M~    boarding-school." 

The  father  thought  of  an  attic  room  which  he  never 
failed  to  visit  before  going  to  bed.  Under  the  slope  of 
the  roof  were  iron  beds  with  blue-and-white  quilts,  and 
on  the  pillows  had  lain  three  dark  heads.  Richard  and 
James  were  gone,  now  it  was  Harry's  turn.  The  school 
that  swallowed  them  for  the  greater  part  of  the  year 
must  take  him  also.  Mr.  King  would  not  need  to  toil 
night  after  night  up  the  attic  stairs. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  to  boarding-school." 

"The  others  are  doing  well?"  Mr.  Lane  was  proud 
of  his  old  scholars,  now  at  Cheeley  Grammar  School. 
He  had  taught  them  since  they  were  little  chaps,  and 
Richard's  scholarship,  James's  high  place  in  class,  re- 
flected glory  on  the  day-school. 

"  Better  than  I  could  have  hoped." 

With  their  example,  such  a  shining  one,  before  Harry's 
eyes,  with  the  "  out-of  bounds  "  to  wall  him  from  tempta- 
tion, surely  the  wild  strain  would  be,  if  not  eliminated, 
at  least  brought  under  control.  Yes,  Harry  must  go, 
must  have  his  chance;  but  without  him,  Lord,  how  quiet 
the  house  would  be !  "  I'll  send  him  to  Cheeley." 

"  There's  a  lot  of  good  in  the  boy."  To  Mr.  Lang  he 
was  as  a  Pied  Piper  among  the  lads,  leading  them  astray. 
"  If  he  could  be  made  to  work  he'd  do  well  —  not  as  well 

31 


32 The  Rolling  Stone 

as  Richard,  perhaps,  not  even  as  well  as  James,  but  well 
enough." 

Made  to  work;  that  is,  made  to  work  at  his  books. 
Harry  liked  work  of  a  sort,  but  not  book-work.  Was 
there  no  other  road  to  success?  Mr.  King  had  a  sus- 
picion that  there  might  be,  and  this  glimmering  persisted 
for  a  little;  but  no,  he  could  not  think  of  any  other  road. 
"  When  Henry  settles  down,"  he  said  heavily. 

"  He  will  settle  down  all  right  under  Dr.  Waugh." 

"  Well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Lane.  I  expect  you  have  had 
a  good  deal  to  put  up  with." 

The  schoolmaster  pushed  back  his  chair.  "  There  have 
been  compensations,"  he  said,  wondering  for  a  moment 
whether  original  sin  was  not  more  endearing  in  a  boy 
than  scholarship. 

II 

"  You'll  do  all  right  because  you  are  good  at  games," 
said  Richard ;  "  that  is,  if  you  aren't  cocky." 

"  How  many  boys  are  there  at  Cheeley?  " 

"  About  three  hundred  and  sixty." 

Harry,  following  his  seniors  into  the  school  precincts, 
determined  to  be  self-effacing.  He  would  watch  other 
boys,  do  just  what  they  did.  One  of  fifty  new-comers, 
he  fell  back  among  them,  feeling  that  the  place  was  big 
and  he  very  small.  It  was  a  little  oppressive,  Cheeley, 
and  everything  was  strange.  The  town  in  which  he  had 
lived  seemed  to  his  backward  glance  a  place  of  half-lights 
and  pleasant  familiarity.  He  knew  every  street  and  turn- 
ing, almost  every  boy.  But  this  old  grammar  school 

—  bare,  cold,  ringing  with  unknown,  perhaps  hostile  life 

—  he  was  lost  in  it,  unpleasantly  alone. 

Still,  they  had  picked  him  to  play  in  the  House  game. 
His  name  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  half-sheet  of  paper 


The  Rolling  Stone 33 

that  was  pinned  up  on  the  wall.  A  lot  of  other  names, 
then  — "  King." 

He  had  been  playing  with  the  kids  and  had  shot  three 
goals,  and  they  had  cheered  him  and  Gaunt,  a  big  chap, 
had  said,  "  You  may  have  the  honour  of  walking  to  chapel 
with  me." 

Sweet  the  plaudits :  "  King !     King !     Go  it,  Bear !  " 

He  was  called  "  Bear  "  because  of  his  black  mop  and 
because  he  was  quick.  Bears  were  like  lightning  and 
you  never  knew  what  they  would  do  next.  Also  they 
boxed;  they  stood  up  on  their  hind  legs  and  hit  out  like 
a  man.  He  did  not  mind  his  nickname ;  he  rather  liked  it. 

Richard  and  James  were  pleased  with  him.  They  saw 
him  walking  into  chapel  with  Gaunt,  and  Richard  had 
said,  "  What's  that  young  brother  of  mine  been  up  to 
now? "  If  he  hadn't  been  pleased  he  wouldn't  have 
said  "  young  brother." 

Harry  had  made  himself  felt  —  a  little ;  but  he  must 
be  quiet  about  it,  he  mustn't  tell  anybody,  mustn't  let 
himself  go. 

Difficult  that.  There  were  such  a  lot  of  things  he 
wanted  to  do.  He  felt  sometimes  as  if  he  must  attempt 
some  of  them,  one  —  just  one. 

If  he  did  it  secretly,  didn't  tell  a  soul,  not  a  single 
solitary  soul? 

Better  try  it  than  burst. 

If  he  didn't  try  it,  that  is  what  he  would  do,  burst. 

Ill 

Dr  Waugh,  having  arranged  his  shaving  apparatus  on 
the  shelf  that  stretched  below  the  round  toilet-mirror, 
turned  to  set  his  watch  by  the  abbey  clock. 

His  glance,  crossing  the  leafage  of  intervening  space, 
the  roof  of  the  junior  school,  the  medley  of  headstones, 


34 The  Rolling  Stone 

found  the  spire  and  rested  on  it  contentedly  —  his  spire, 
the  tapering  lines  by  which  he  set  the  clock  of  his  daily 
life,  the  lines  that  went  up  and  up.  The  half-chick  at 
the  top  was  gleaming  in  the  sun.  A  fine  autumn  day, 
and  he  in  tune  with  it.  What  a  thing  it  was  to  have 
before  your  window  the  pointing  serenity,  the  conviction 
of  those  lines .' 

But  — 

What  was  it? 

Against  the  grey-blue  of  the  sky  a  sharply  increased 
curve,  a  bulge,  was  visible,  not  far  from  the  base.  Hastily 
picking  up  long-distance  spectacles,  Dr.  Waugh  studied 
the  altered  line  of  the  spire,  and  as  he  did  so  thoughts  of 
architects  —  the  best  in  England  —  of  builders,  crafts- 
men, steeplejacks,  ran  through  his  mind.  If  the  spire 
were  damaged,  tottering  to  a  fall,  it  must  be  restored. 
His  beautiful  spire  —  yes,  whatever  it  cost ! 

The  boss  was  moving,  it  was  distinct  from  the  abbey 
spire,  it  had  life.  The  spire  was  in  no  danger,  but  — 

The  boss  was  a  boy  —  one,  he  felt  certain,  of  the  three 
hundred  and  sixty  whom  trusting  parents  had  placed 
in  his  care.  The  boy  would  fall,  he  would  be  killed. 

Ghastly !  One  of  his  boys  —  he  saw  a  little  broken 
body  — 

The  bulge  was  ascending,  it  was  moving  slowly  but 
steadily.  Yes,  but  a  slip,  a  false  step,  and  it  would  come 
slithering  down.  And  the  sides  of  the  spire!  they  were 
so  steep !  Dr.  Waugh  dared  not  hope ;  yet  boys  did 
escape,  did  make  good,  and  even  when  hurt,  badly  hurt, 
they  recovered.  Boys  were  wonderful,  so  recuperative. 
Still  —  such  a  fall ;  and  below  were  flagstones.  He  must 
not  — 

He  could  only  will  that  the  boy  should  get  to  the  top. 
A  step  and  yet  another  step !  What  a  blessing  it  was  a 


The  Rolling  Stone 35 

still  morning,  no  wind!  Yet  another  step!  Must  have 
a  good  head,  that  boy.  Ah  —  what?  No,  he  had  done 
it.  He  was  actually  at  the  top  of  Cheeley  Abbey  spire. 

The  head  master  drew  a  long  sighing  breath  of  relief. 
Well,  and  now  the  youngster  would  come  down. 

What  was  he  about?  Dr.  Waugh  leaned  forward, 
peering.  The  boy  was  shinning  up  the  pole  of  the 
weathercock !  To  think  that  at  that  altitude  he  dared ! 
He  was  up,  though,  and  hanging  his  cap  on  the  half- 
chick.  It  dangled,  rakishly  atilt,  the  proof  of  his  exploit ! 

On  the  shelf  at  Dr.  Waugh's  side,  the  water  in  the 
green  porcelain  jar  was  grown  first  tepid  and  then  cold. 
The  head  master  had  forgotten  it,  and  he  continued  to 
forget. 

Once  before  in  the  history  of  Cheeley  a  boy  had  at- 
tempted the  abbey  spire.  The  school  got  wind  of  it,  and 
the  lad,  looking  down  on  a  concourse  of  masters  and  boys, 
lost  his  head.  Though  he  fell,  Dr.  Waugh  remembered 
that  he  had  not  been  badly  hurt. 

His  parents  had  taken  him  home,  had  not  been  en- 
couraged to  send  him  back,  and  Dr.  Waugh,  walking 
quickly  through  the  graveyard,  wondered  why.  A  boy 
who  climbed  the  spire  of  Cheeley  Abbey  must  have  parts ; 
it  might  even  be  that  his  daring  was  rooted  in  heroic 
earth.  Such  a  boy  must,  surely,  trust  in  something  out- 
side himself  —  his  luck,  his  star,  the  unknown  God  —  to 
bring  him  through ;  must  put  all  he  had  into  some  great 
hand,  make  his  attempt  in  the  conviction  that  this  hand 
would  bear  him  up.  Such  faith  might  take  its  possessor 
far. 

Turning  a  corner  Dr.  Waugh  found  the  small  adven- 
turer of  whom  he  was  in  quest,  lowering  himself  into 
safety;  he  waited,  suddenly  conscious  of  weariness,  until 
the  boy's  feet  should  have  touched  the  ground. 


36  The  Rolling  Stone 

Harry  was  smiling  to  himself,  smiling  contentedly. 
They  had  said  no  one  could  climb  the  spire  and  he  had 
done  it ;  he  had  done  it  during  his  first  term. 

He  was  hungry  now,  he  wanted  his  breakfast.  Would 
he  be  late?  He  did  not  think  so.  He  had  allowed  him- 
self plenty  of  time.  He  would  slip  in  to  breakfast  with 
the  others ;  and  he  would  whisper  to  Bakewell  about  the 
spire,  and  perhaps  to  Vincent.  If  they  didn't  believe 
him,  he  would  tell  them  to  look  at  the  weathercock. 

The  news  would  spread  all  over  the  school.  "  King 
has  climbed  the  spire !  " 

"  Where  is  your  cap  ?  " 

Harry  was  staring  at  the  homely  but  awe-inspiring 
figure  of  the  head  master.  If  only  a  gulf  could  immedi- 
ately be  fixed  between  his  feet  and  those  large  house-shoes ! 

"  Why  did  you  climb  the  spire  ?  " 

His  voice  did  not  sound  exactly  angry. 

"  They  told  me  I  couldn't  do  it." 

"  It  has  been  done  before,"  said  the  voice,  and  Harry's 
countenance  fell ;  he  was  to  have  been  first,  first  and  last ! 
"  The  boy  who  did  it  was  sent  home." 

Would  the  little  fellow  plead  with  him?  No,  not  a 
word.  The  heavily  boned  face  was  set  in  unsmiling  lines, 
the  eyes  clung  to  those  vaguely  patterned  house-shoes. 

"  It  has  not  been  thought  necessary  to  make  a  rule  for- 
bidding boys  to  climb  the  abbey  spire,  but  you  knew  you 
were  doing  wrong." 

No  answer.  Harry  had  a  sensation  as  of  the  emptying 
of  his  little  carcase. 

"  However,  I  have  decided  not  to  punish  you."  The 
blood  began  to  flow  back  into  the  boy's  face  and  he 
blinked,  as  a  bird  blinks  to  clear  its  vision.  "  Neverthe- 
less, I  am  responsible  for  you  to  your  parents,  and  you 
might  have  broken  your  neck."  Dr.  Waugh  was  fingering 


The  Rolling  Stone 37 

in  his  pocket  a  broad  silver-piece.  "  As  I  don't  want  the 
other  boys  to  follow  your  example,  I  shall  put  you  on 
your  honour  not  to  speak  of  this  exploit." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  I  expect  you  will  be  punished  for  your  carelessness  in 
losing  your  cap." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

He  brought  out  the  coin.  "  You'll  be  late  for  break- 
fast. Cut  along  to  the  tuck-shop ;  the  sausages  there  are 
pretty  good." 

The  boy  sped  away  and  Waugh  rose  stiffly  from  the 
tombstone  on  which  he  had  been  sitting.  "  Can't  remem- 
ber when  I've  felt  so  tired,"  he  murmured  as  he  went  along 
the  paved  walk  that  led  to  the  schoolhouse.  In  his  back 
was  a  twinge  as  of  impending  lumbago,  and  he  put  a  hand 
to  it,  but  not  as  if  it  held  for  him  its  old  terrors.  In  the 
school  workshops  was  a  machine,  the  last  thing  according 
to  Dr.  Waugh,  in  beauty;  and  although  Harry  did  not 
strike  him  as  beautiful,  his  movements  had  brought  the 
machine  into  the  master's  field  of  vision.  The  boy  seemed 
made  for  the  purpose  to  which  he  had  set  himself.  Every 
part  worked  sweetly  to  the  common  end,  and  about  him 
was  no  superfluous  flesh  nor  any  other  sort  of  superfluity 
—  not  even,  as  Dr.  Waugh  remembered  with  a  smile  —  not 
even  any  superfluous  words. 

He  did  not  know  the  boy's  name,  but  the  compact  fig- 
ure, the  bright  eyes  in  a  heavy  face,  the  tousle  of  black 
hair,  would  not  be  difficult  to  remember;  and  his  develop- 
ment ought  to  be  interesting  —  among  the  three  hundred 
and  sixty,  always  one  or  two  who  were  interesting  to 
watch ! 


38 The  Rolling  Stone 

IV 

Richard,  walking  with  the  Rugger  captain,  had  paid  a 
satisfactory  visit  to  the  tuck-shop. 

"  Let's  stroll  around  for  a  bit."  If  he  meant  to  get 
the  Balliol  Scholarship  he  ought  not  to  spare  the  time, 
but  he  did  not  often  get  Chesterman  to  himself.  f 

They  walked  past  the  sacred  cricket-ground  and  alon^ 
the  end  of  the  "  footer  "  field.  Richard  stopped  midway. 

"What  is  it,  King?" 

"  My  young  brother's  playing.  I  wish  you'd  have  a 
squint  at  him." 

The  great  man  drew  up  alongside.     "  Which?  " 

"  The  kid  playing  back  this  side." 

They  stood  in  silence  for  some  minutes  watching  the 
game.  Presently  Chesterman  laughed.  "  Little  beggar 
kicks  every  way  at  once." 

Richard  nodded.     "  And  he's  no  funk !  " 

"  He'll  do.  His  foot-work  is  jolly  good  for  a  youngster 
and  he's  heavy.  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  him." 

"  Thanks." 

V 

"  The  north  wind  doth  blow,"  quoth  Mr.  Deacon, 
Harry's  house-master.  "  I  don't  know  — " 

"  The  paper-chase  is  all  arranged  now,  sir,"  urged  a 
hare. 

The  head  master's  birthday,  which  was  kept  as  a  holi- 
day, fell  early  in  November,  and  for  those  boys  —  Harry 
was  one  of  them  —  whose  parents  were  too  busy  or  too 
remote  to  visit  their  children,  amusement  was  devised. 

Mr.  Deacon  looked  at  the  rout  of  brown  and  yellow 
leaves  that  was  whirling  past  the  door.  "  Well,  Baker, 
keep  in  sight  of  the  spire.  If  we  have  snow  it  isn't  likely, 
at  this  time  of  the  year,  that  it  will  be  much." 


The  Rolling  Stone  89 

"  Very  well,  sir."  The  low-hanging  woolly  clouds  might 
promise  snow,  but  the  wind  was  rising  and  would  keep 
it  off  till  they  were  back  at  Cheeley.  Even  if  it  didn't, 
what  was  a  little  snow?  He  wouldn't  go  far,  but  he  had 
planned  a  puzzling  run  —  the  miry  reaches  of  the  river, 
the  lanes  about  his  home. 

Anyway,  you  could  see  the  spire  for  miles  and  miles. 
The  struggling  pack  was  some  time  before  it  realized 
that  the  first  white  feathers,  one  here  and  one  there, 
heralded  a  mighty  plucking.  Heated  with  running,  it 
caught  the  occasional  flakes  and  found  their  coolness 
grateful.  By  the  time  the  lanes  in  which  it  was  involved, 
debouched  on  a  main  road,  however,  the  snowfall  had 
curtained  off  what  of  the  landscape  was  familiar.  The 
boys  found  themselves  in  a  dip  of  land,  a  sort  of  wide, 
shallow  cup  with  the  cloud-filled  sky  for  cover  and  the 
snow  for  porcelain  walls.  Up  these  the  road  ran  right 
and  left  without  finger-posts,  without  even  a  landmark, 
to  tell  them  which  led  to  Cheeley. 

One  after  another  the  boys,  hurrying  along,  paused  to 
look  up  and  down  the  road.  The  hares,  never  once 
sighted,  had  led  them  hither;  but  already  the  light-blown 
paper  of  their  scattering  had  disappeared  under  the  snow. 
Even  if  they  turned  to  the  right,  as  the  leaders  suggested, 
that  might  not  take  them  to  Cheeley.  The  boys  were 
only  anxious  to  be  safe  housed  against  the  weather.  They 
decided  to  toss  a  coin.  "  Heads  right,  tails  left !  Tails 
it  is." 

VI 

"  Let's  do  that  spider-web,  Bear." 

The  web  had  been  attached  to  a  bramble-bush  by  a 
spider  who  knew  the  attraction  blackberries  have  for  every 
§mall  winged  creature.  She  had  retired  from  business, 


40 The  Rolling  Stone 

but  the  torn  net  still  stretched  across  the  reddening  leaves. 
Harry  was  running  with  a  little  boy  who  had  been  sent  to 
Cheeley  for  his  health  and  who  was  the  possessor  of  a 
black  pocket-microscope,  three  lenses  set  in  vulcanite  and 
hung  on  one  hinge.  With  this  the  boys  had  beguiled  the 
tedium  of  the  chase. 

"  The  ground  looks  pretty  slushy,  Miller."  Between 
the  footpath  and  the  bank  on  which,  a  gorgeous  tangle  of 
sprays,  grew  the  bush,  lay  a  piece  of  flat  ground.  This 
ground  had  once  been  a  ditch,  so  broad  that  pond  was 
the  better  name. 

"  Oh,  it's  firm  enough,"  and  the  smaller  boy  set  his 
foot  on  a  tussock  of  wind-bitten  grass.  As  he  did  so  a 
mouse,  which  had  been  sheltering  on  the  further  side,  ran 
out,  making  for  the  spiny  cover.  "  Oh,  look !  "  and  Miller 
made  after  it.  A  step  and  the  mire  of  the  ditch  was  over 
his  boot.  He  called  to  his  companion,  and  Harry,  spring- 
ing forward,  felt  the  caked  surface  shake  and  give.  In 
another  moment  both  boys  were  scrambling  back  to  firm 
ground ;  but  Miller,  the  more  nervous  of  the  two,  had  had 
a  fright.  His  face  had  gone  grey  and  he  was  shivering. 

"  I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  sucked  in." 

"  We'll  stick  to  the  path  after  this,"  said  Harry.  The 
water  having  run  over  the  tops  of  his  boots,  his  feet  were 
wet,  and  he  stamped  them  impatiently* 

"  It  was  a  real  bog.  We  might  have  sunk  right  down 
and  only  our  caps  been  left  to  show  what  had  happened." 

Harry  had  no  desire  to  minimize  the  danger.  *'  They 
ought  to  put  up  a  post  as  a  warning.  I've  read  in  news- 
papers of  people  disappearing.  I  dare  say  some,  ever  so 
many,  are  at  the  bottom  of  that  ditch.  It's  just  as  well," 
he  added,  looking  down  at  his  miry  boots,  "  we  didn't  go  in 
head-first." 

Miller  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  take  an  interest  in 


The  Rolling  Stone 41 

his  surroundings.  "  Why,  it's  beginning  to  snow,  and  — 
and  1  can't  see  any  of  the  others." 

"  They  went  this  way,"  said  Harry,  pointing  to  some 
pieces  of  paper,  and  he  quickened  his  pace. 

When  he  and  his  companion  reached  the  hollow  which 
had  the  sky  for  patine  and  never  a  tree  to  make  the 
snowy  rim  unequal,  the  rest  of  the  hunt  was  out  of  sight 
on  what  it  fondly  hoped  was  the  road  to  Cheeley.  The 
boys  paused  to  consider.  To  the  left  were  the  marks 
of  feet,  to  the  right  bits  of  torn  paper,  over  all  the  rush 
of  thickly  falling  snow.  They  decided  to  follow  the  hares ; 
but,  before  starting,  Harry's  glance  rested  thoughtfully 
on  his  companion. 

"  Look  here,  Milly,  you'll  get  wet." 

The  smaller  boy  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  glanced 
afield  over  the  quickly  whitening  landscape.  "  The  snow 
isn't  melting." 

"  It'll  melt  on  you,  silly." 

"  Can't  be  helped." 

"  You  are  going  to  have  my  coat."  In  those  simpler 
times  the  boys  had  but  two  suits,  one  for  daily  wear  and 
one  for  Sunday.  They  had  no  special  running  kit,  and 
when  Harry  started  that  morning  he  had  taken  a  great 
coat  from  the  peg,  not  because  he  was  cold  but  as  a 
matter  of  habit. 

"  Shut  up,  Bear ;  I  shan't  do  anything  of  the  sort." 
His  own  coat  had  been  left  behind. 

"  You  will,  though." 

"  Not  me."  But  for  all  his  voice  was  confident,  he 
had  noted  the  square  set  of  Harry's  jaw.  "  I'm  perfectly 
all  right ;  besides,  you'd  catch  cold." 

"What,  me?"  His  spirit  flung  the  suggestion  scorn- 
fully aside.  "  I'm  awfully  strong.  Why,  when  the  others 
had  mumps  I  didn't.  I  can't  catch  anything,  not  even  if 


42  The  Rolling  Stone 

I  try."  He  pulled  off  the  thick  coat  which  until  that 
moment  had  been  a  handicap. 

"  Why  should  I  have  your  coat?  " 

"  Here,  put  it  on."  The  other  was  succumbing,  not  to 
temptation,  but  the  stronger  will,  succumbing  thankfully. 
His  eyes  turned  from  the  snowy  waste,  silent,  lonely, 
threatening,  to  the  steadfast  countenance  of  his  com- 
panion. He  was  not  lost  for  he  had  Bear.  He  slipped 
his  chilled  arms  into  the  coat. 

To  Harry,  fastening  the  flap  under  the  other's  chin 
with  a  sense  of  glad  surrender,  came  that  uplift  of  the 
spirit  which  is  ecstasy.  To  help  what  was  weaker  than 
himself;  what,  because  of  that  weakness,  must  depend 
on  him,  always  thrilled  him  to  endeavour.  Their  plight, 
lost  in  the  rapidly  deepening  snow  —  for  these  scurries 
out  of  the  north  meant  a  heavy  fall  in  a  short  time  — 'held 
no  terrors  for  him.  He  had  faith  in  a  something  outside 
himself,  something  which  would  bring  them  into  safety. 

"  Come  on ! "  he  cried,  and,  with  no  longer  any  protec- 
tion from  the  blast,  stepped  cheerily  forward. 

The  boys  bent  their  heads  to  the  driving  flakes  and 
trudged  for  some  time  in  silence.  By  deciding  to  follow 
the  hares  they  had  turned  their  backs  on  Cheeley  and 
were  traveling  north.  In  the  blinding  scurry  they  failed 
to  notice  that  the  paper  trail  had  vanished  through  a 
break  in  the  whitening  hedge ;  they  had,  in  fact,  forgotten 
the  hunt  and  were  mainly  occupied  with  the  effort  to 
push  through  the  growing  drifts  and,  at  the  same  time, 
keep  on  the  look-out  for  a  landmark. 

"  I  say,  Bear,"  cried  Miller  at  last,  his  foot  sinking 
through  a  drift  of  snow  into  what  in  summer  days  had 
been  a  hollow  by  a  roadside  bank.  "  Let's  sit  here  for 
a  bit." 

"  We  haven't  time," 


The  Rolling  Stone 43 

"It  isn't  late." 
"  Anyway,  it's  getting  dark." 

Miller  yielded  and  began  to  walk  on.     "  We  don't  seem 
to  be  getting  anywhere,"  he  said  unhappily. 
"  Give  us  a  chance." 

The  other  boy  sighed.     "  What  a  long  road  this  is." 
"You  tired?'" 

"  We  seem  to  have  been  walking  for  hours." 
"  The  hares,"  said  Harry,  who  always  knew  where  to 
lay  the  blame,  "  must  have  lost  themselves.  They  ought 
to  get  a  hiding  for  this.  They  would,"  he  added,  his 
anger  running  through  him  like  a  cordial,  "  if  my  father 
knew  about  it." 

"  If  only  there  was  a  house." 

The  hurrying  flakes  were  a  grey  wall  between  the  little 
fellows  and  the  countryside;  to  right  and  left  of  them 
the  hedges  ran  on  with  only  an  occasional  gate,  and  that 
leading  not  to  a  house  but  the  inhospitable  fields. 
"  I'm  done,  Bear.     I  can't  go  any  farther." 
"  We  must  be  near  some  place."     He  pulled  the  other 
to  his  feet.     "  I'll  help  you." 
"  Let's  go  back." 

"  Not  much."     He  put  an  arm,  already  unusually  thick, 
round  Miller,  urging  him  forward,  and  the  boy,  subdued 
to  the  stronger  will,  made  a  stumbling  effort ;  but  his  lips 
were  blue,  his  strength  nearly  at  an  end. 
"  I  can't  go  any  farther." 
"  You  can.      Come  on  now." 
"  I  —  I  won't." 

Harry's  face  was  set.     "  You've  got  to." 
"  No." 

"  See  here,  Milly.     I'll  hit  you." 

"  You'll  hit  me  ?  "     He  quavered  the  words  in  feeble 
astonishment. 


44 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Ay." 

Miller's  head  had  been  swaying  on  his  shoulders.  He 
was  sleepy  with  exhaustion,  but  this  roused  him.  He 
stared  into  Harry's  steadfast  eyes  for  a  moment,  then 
began  to  flounder  along  the  road.  Harry  would  hit  him. 
Harry  had  been  kind  but  now  he  was  cruel ;  and  he 
meant  it,  meant  to  hurt.  They  went  on  again,  and  about 
them  the  dusk  deepened,  and  still  the  flakes  drove  softly 
through  the  grey  air.  Suddenly  Miller  fell  in  a  heap. 

"  Get  up." 

"  Don't  care,"  he  muttered  drowsily.  Sleep  was  his 
utmost  need ;  but  Harry's  fierce  heart  knew  no  hesitation. 
He  fell  on  his  companion  with  the  flails  of  his  frozen 
hands ;  he  beat  him  back  to  consciousness.  His  anger 
warmed  the  other  boy  to  a  tearful  effort,  warmed  himself 
too,  and  again  they  went  staggering  along  the  road. 

VII 

Samuel  Baker,  owner  of  Windyknowe  Farm,  was  on 
his  way  home  from  Cheeley.  In  sufficient  awe  of  the 
head  master  not  to  go  contrary  to  his  expressed  wishes, 
the  farmer,  in  spite  of  weather  and  inclination,  had 
driven  his  son  —  one  of  the  hares  —  back  to  the  school. 
Now,  with  cap  low  over  his  eyes  and  collar  up,  he  was 
using  a  lifetime's  knowledge  of  the  road  to  avoid  sinking 
axle-deep  into  the  drifts.  So  intent  was  he  that,  although 
for  a  time  he  was  conscious  of  something  small  and  snowy 
on  the  waste  ahead,  he  had  not  brought  his  mind  to  bear 
on  it.  A  hundred  yards  from  Windyknowe  the  road 
turned  sharply,  and  the  farmer,  occupied  with  his  horse, 
nearly  drove  over  a  heap,  which  the  gig  lamps  revealed 
as  endowed  with  some  sort  of  struggling  life. 

"  Hullo,"  he   shouted,  pulling  up,   and,   as   the  horse 


The  Rolling  Stone  45 

stopped,  the  heat  differentiated  itself  into  two  boys,  one 
lying  supine,  the  other  aiming  at  him,  in  half-dazed  me- 
chanical fashion,  blows  which,  though  feeble,  were  still 
resolute.  Neither  child  took  any  notice  of  the  farmer; 
they  were,  indeed,  reduced  to  the  expression  of  a  need  — 
the  need  in  the  one  for  rest,  and  in  the  other  to  save. 

"Hi,  there,  what  are  you  doing?"  and  he  jumped  a 
little  awkwardly,  for  he  too  was  cold,  out  of  the  gig.  His 
voice,  followed  by  his  presence,  reached  Harry,  the  less  far 
gone  of  the  children.  He  stood  up,  staring  stupidly. 

"  He  mustn't  go  to  sleep." 

Baker  had  a  flask  in  his  pocket. 

He  set  to  work  on  the  sleeper.  "  And  now,"  said  he, 
lifting  Miller  into  the  gig,  "  you  get  in  too.  We'll  be 
home  in  a  jiffy." 

Harry  tried  to  obey,  but  his  feet,  long  numb,  had 
grown  suddenly  leaden ;  he  could  not  lift  them. 

"  You're  pretty  near  done,  old  man.  Here,  give  us 
your  hand.  There,  that's  it."  He  tucked  the  waterproof 
rug  round  the  boy  and  started  his  horse.  "  It  was  lucky 
for  the  little  chap,"  said  he,  and  his  voice  deepened  into 
a  sort  of  thanksgiving,  "  very  lucky  indeed,  that  he  had 
you  with  him." 


Chapter  IV 


MRS.  BAKER,  fearing  lest  her  husband  might 
be  asleep,  came  quietly  into  the  parlour.  The 
room  was  lighted  by  a  log-fire,  and  Sam,  in 
sprawling  comfort,  was  stretched  before  it.  His  wife, 
tiptoeing  round  the  walnut-wood  table,  saw  a  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  and  smiled  her  relief. 

"Well,  Sally,  put  your  new  babies  to  bed?" 

"  I've  put  them  in  John's  room." 

"  I  lay  they'll  sleep  tonight." 

"  The  little  one  is  asleep  now  and  —  well  —  so  is  the 
other." 

He  marked  her  hesitation.     "What's  wrong?" 

"  Don't  like  the  look  of  him,  Sam." 

"  Not  like  the  look  of  him?  "  In  his  surprise  he  left 
his  mouth  wide.  "  Why,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him  t'other 
little  chap  would  have  been  a  goner.  I  was  sitting  here 
thinking  of  him,  the  one  down  and  done  for  and  the  other 
nearly  as  bad  but  hammering  away  for  dear  life  —  it  was 
for  dear  life,  too." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  way ;  but  he  isn't  sleeping  as  quiet 
as  I  should  like." 

"  He'll  be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

"  I  wish  you'd  take  a  look  at  him." 

Sam  heaved  himself  out  of  the  armchair  with  a  grunt 
and  followed  her  upstairs.  In  the  chamber  hitherto  sacred 
to  the  son  of  the  house  were  a  couple  of  small  beds,  one 

for  John,  the  other  for  any  boy  he  might  bring  home, 

46 


The  Rolling  Stone  47 

and  in  these  the  chance  visitors  had  been  put.  In  that 
nearest  the  door  little  Miller  lay  in  the  deep  sleep  of 
exhaustion.  He  was  so  still  the  coverlet  was  hardly  lifted 
by  his  breath,  but  in  his  cheek  was  the  faint  rose  of  re- 
turning strength. 

"  That  one  will  be  all  right,"  said  Baker  as  they  passed. 
"  Tougher  than  he  looks." 

Mrs.  Baker's  glance  slipped  quickly  from  this  bed  to  the 
next.  "  Oh,  yes,"  she  said  absently,  "  but  — " 

The  farmer,  accustomed  to  judge  an  animal's  health  by 
its  appearance,  turned  on  Harry  a  sharp,  appraising 
glance.  The  boy,  stretched  on  his  back,  was  muttering 
in  his  sleep.  His  skin  was  dry,  his  face  flushed,  and  he 
was  moving  his  curly  black  poll  from  side  to  side  as  if 
he  found  it  impossible  to  remain  still. 

Same  repeated  his  verdict,  but  not  as  if  he  meant  it 
to  carry  conviction.  "  He'll  be  all  right  by  the  morning." 

"  They  were  out  for  hours  in  that  snow,  the  precious 
lambs,"  said  Mrs.  Baker,  "  and  this  one  hadn't  a  great- 
coat." 

"  He's  taken  a  chill." 

"  I  hope  it's  nothing  worse." 

"  Well,  you  can't  do  anything  more  for  him  tonight.'* 

She  drew  aside  the  blind  and  looked  out.  Snow  was 
still  falling;  big  flakes  sailed  out  of  the  blackness  and 
fell  on  the  heaped  window-sill.  "  I  suppose  not." 

"  I  expect  there's  a  precious  to-do  over  the  boys  at 
Cheeley,  but  there's  no  way  of  letting  the  school  know. 
I'll  drive  in  early  tomorrow." 

"  Do,"  she  said,  and  continued  to  stare  into  the  murk. 

"What  is  it,  mother?" 

"  It  might  have  been  John,"  and  as* she  spoke,  Harry 
cried  in  his  sleep  as  if  in  pain.  "  I  think,"  she  said  softly, 
"  I'll  just  lie  down  on  the  sofa  here  for  tonight." 


48  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  You'll  knock  yourself  up." 

"  I  should  feel  happier,  somehow,  if  I  stayed  with  him." 

He  pulled  her  ear,  a  sign  with  him  of  tenderness,  and 
went  off,  thinking  it  was  a  pity  that,  being  Bakers,  they 
had  not  the  dozen  that  should  have  gone  with  the  name. 
What  was  one  child?  It  left  the  mother-heart  too  soft. 

Before  dawn  Harry  woke,  complaining  of  aches  in  his 
joints,  thirst  and  general  discomfort.  After  giving  him 
to  drink,  Mrs.  Baker  roused  her  husband. 

"  The  wind  has  dropped  and  the  snow  is  melting  fast." 

"It's  early  yet." 

"  I  want  you  to  drive  to  Cheeley  and  bring  back  Dr. 
Hargreaves." 

"  Is  the  lad  worse  ?  " 

"  He's  feverish  and  he's  in  pain." 

Harry,  in  the  initial  stages  of  rheumatic  fever,  had 
only  a  dim  understanding  of  events.  At  first  the  faces 
that  came  and  went  were  strange,  but  it  seemed  to  him 
that  they  grew  gradually  more  and  more  familiar,  until 
at  last  his  father  and  mother  stood  beside  his  bed. 

He  had  been  in  pain,  but  some  doctor-draught  had 
deadened  it  for  the  nonce  and  he  was  fallen  into  an  uneasy 
sleep.  His  opening  eyes  rested  on  his  father's  handsome 
face,  full  now  of  pity  and  anxiety.  It  puzzled  Harry, 
who  had  never  before  seen  his  father  moved. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  he  said  feebly,  and,  looking 
for  the  reason,  encountered  his  mother's  glance.  She,  too, 
was  in  some  way  different.  As  far  as  her  children  were 
concerned  she  had  hitherto  swept  through  life  on  a  gale  of 
confidence ;  now  she  seemed  troubled. 

"  Five  others,"  she  was  saying,  "  no,  I  can't  do  it." 

"  He  must  come  home,"  said  Mr.  King. 

"  I'm  only  one  woman.     I  can't  do  everything." 

"  Well,  but  .  .  ." 


The  Rolling  Stone 49 

"  He  must  go  to  the  hospital." 

Plainly  she  suffered  some  reluctance,  but  not  enough 
to  affect  her  resolution.  "  They  will  look  after  him  there 
better  than  I  could."  And,  she  said  again,  "  Five  others 
• — no,  I  can't  do  it." 

His  father  looked  at  her  as  if  she  were  beyond  his  un- 
derstanding. "  You  are  willing  that  the  boy  should  go  ?  " 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  like  nursing,"  he  said,  and  Harry  heard 
in  his  father's  voice  a  note  that  was  familiar. 

His  mother  turned  away.  "  I'm  no  good  at  it,"  she 
said. 

II 

He  did  not  see  his  parents  again  for  some  time  —  was, 
indeed,  too  much  occupied  with  himself  to  care  who 
nursed  him.  Wrapped  in  blankets,  he  was  transferred 
from  the  farm  to  a  hospital  ward,  and  the  travelling 
thither  proved  so  agonizing  that  many  years  passed  be- 
fore he  was  able  to  look  back  on  the  journey  without  a 
wince  for  pain  not  yet  forgotten.  At  intervals  he  became 
conscious  of  his  father's  face,  of  a  voice  in  his  ear  that 
whispered  encouragement;  but  his  mind  was  mainly  occu- 
pied with  the  thought  that  if  the  pain  did  not  get  better 
he  must  scream,  and  he  did  not  want  to  scream.  Later, 
he  asked  the  nurses  if  he  had  cried  out,  and  was  amazed 
to  find  they  did  not  know.  A  thing  of  so  much  importance 
and  they  did  not  know!  When  he  put  the  question  he 
had  reddened  with  fear,  had  hung  on  the  edge  of  shame, 
and  they  —  they  had  not  remembered ! 

"  You  must  know." 

"I'm  afraid  I  didn't  notice." 

Harry  couldn't  believe  it.     "  You  didn't  notice?  " 

"  You  were  so  ill,  Harry." 


50  The  Boiling  Stone 

But  that  to  him  was  only  a  circumstance.  "  If  I  had 
called  out,"  he  said  hopefully,  "  you  would  have  remem- 
bered," and  his  face  brightened.  From  thenceforward  he 
might  believe  that  he  had  not  sinned  against  his  canons. 

During  his  long  illness,  his  long  convalescence,  Mr. 
King,  busy  as  he  was,  made  opportunities  to  visit  his  son. 
Under  an  indifferent  surface  his  heart  hungered  for  a 
sight  of  the  lad,  now  gaunt  and  feeble,  who  lay  so  quietly 
on  his  bed  in  the  county  hospital.  The  mother  did  not 
find  she  could  spare  the  time,  and  the  boy,  not  having 
been  taught  to  look  to  her  for  tenderness,  did  not  mark 
her  absence.  Hard  mothers  breed  fierce  sons,  and  Harry 
asked  no  more  affection  than  he  got. 

"  Hot  stuff,"  said  Dr.  Hargreaves,  and  regretted  that 
the  lad  would  not  emerge  from  the  fierv  ordeal  unscathed. 

"  You  say  his  heart  is  enlarged,"  said  Mr.  King.  "  What 
does  that  mean?  " 

"  He'll  have  to  be  careful  for  a  bit." 

"But  will  it  get  all  right?" 

"  Compensation  will  be  set  up." 

"  Will  he  be  able  to  play  games  ?  " 

"  I  expect  so." 

"  He'd  miss  them." 

"  His  physical  development  is  quite  remarkable.  I've 
never  seen  such  limbs." 

The  father's  heart  warmed  towards  this  understanding 
man.  "And  when  he  leaves  the  hospital?" 

"  I  should  send  him  to  the  seaside." 

Mr.  King  had  never  heard  of  sending  people  to  the 
coast  in  winter.  "  I've  a  brother-in-law  at  Bristol." 

"  The  boy  would  be  looked  after?  " 

"  Hall  is  a  bachelor,  but  his  housekeeper  is  a  good  sort, 
and  Harry  was  there  last  year." 

"  I  dare  say  it  will  be  all  right,"  and  the  doctor  reflected 


The  Rolling  Stone 51 

that  from  such  a  rough-and  tumble  emerged  the  hardy 
Englishman,  the  pioneer.  In  Harry's  case  it  would  be 
sink  or  swim. 

Ill 

Christmas  was  still  in  the  offing  when  Harry,  with  a 
handbag  he  was  too  weak  to  carry,  arrived  at  the  ship- 
chandler's  shop  kept  by  Robert  Hall.  His  uncle,  bearing 
in  mind  the  adventure  of  the  tricycle,  suffered  a  shock 
when  the  boy,  almost  too  tired  to  keep  on  his  feet,  stumbled 
across  the  threshold.  "  Lad's  in  a  decline,"  he  thought, 
unable  to  believe  rheumatic  fever  responsible  for  the 
change;  and  his  chief  feeling  was  irritation.  The  young- 
ster had  been  promising,  had  been  likely  to  do  his  stock 
credit,  but  this  whey-faced,  shambling  scarecrow !  Mr. 
Hall  sent  the  boy  to  his  housekeeper  and  thought  no  more 
of  him. 

Over  the  dark,  queer-smelling  shop  with  its  well-salted 
customers  was  a  room  with  rounded  windows  that  looked 
south-west,  and  in  this  room  the  boy  spent  the  greater 
part  of  the  next  fortnight.  Every  afternoon  the  place 
was  flooded  with  sunshine,  and  Harry,  basking  in  it, 
would  lie  on  the  window-seat  and  look  through  the  many 
square  panes  on  to  the  bustling  quay.  A  forest  of  masts 
stretched  from  the  grey  stones  to  which  the  nearest  boat 
was  warped ;  and  behind  this  leafless  wood  the  sun  set. 
Sometimes  the  forest  was  thick-set,  close  black  lines 
against  the  glow;  at  others  it  swayed  on  the  lifting 
waters ;  at  others,  again,  it  left  gaps  through  which  a 
path  could  be  seen  running  west  —  a  path  which  at  close 
of  day  was  liquid  fire.  This  path  it  was  to  which  Harry, 
when  he  was  tired  of  watching  the  ships  load  and  discharge 
cargo,  turned  his  eyes.  Boat  after  boat,  cast  off,  gath- 
ered way  and  went  down  the  golden  road ;  and  never  vessel 


52 The  Rolling  Stone 

left  Bristol  during  those  weeks  but  the  boy's  heart,  the 
boy's  questing  spirit,  went  with  her. 

As  he  grew  stronger  his  uncle,  still  taking  him  for 
granted,  began  to  send  him  on  errands ;  and  these  carried 
his  eager  feet  on  board  ship  and  down  into  the  inner  parts, 
brought  him  in  contact  with  men  from  abroad  —  men  with 
gold  ear-rings  and  parakeets  and  ditty-boxes,  brown  and 
black  as  well  as  white  men.  He  lingered  on  the  quays  and 
by  the  docks ;  and  insensibly,  like  Samson  of  old,  he  gath- 
ered strength.  His  sojourn  in  Bristol  bred  in  the  inland 
child  a  love  of  the  sea,  awoke  in  him  that  roving  spirit 
which  has  peopled  the  earth.  When  a  fresh  term  opened 
at  Cheeley,  Harry  carried  back  a  mind  less  than  ever  able 
to  nourish  itself  with  the  sawdust  of  school-books  —  a 
mind  which,  like  the  spars  of  the  outgoing  vessels,  the 
vessels  that  sailed  into  the  sunset,  was  taken  with  glory. 

IV 

The  February  of  that  year  being  cold  and  dry,  the 
school  had  good  skating  on  the  old  fish-ponds.  These  sur- 
vivals lay  in  a  loop  of  the  river  about  a  mile  from 
Cheeley,  and  Harry  crossed  the  frozen  land  between  as 
often  as  the  authorities  would  permit.  Figure-skating 
provided  a  vent  for  his  unrest,  and  for  a  little  he  was 
able  to  forget  the  creaking  of  cordage,  the  cries  and 
•inging  of  the  men  at  work,  the  many  smells  —  brackish, 
foreign  —  which  had  made  the  Bristol  quay  a  place  of 
glamorous  suggestion.  When  the  cold  snap  showed  signs 
of  coming  to  an  end  and  the  ponds  were  declared  out 
of  bounds,  the  boy  was  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  powers 
new  to  him.  He  was  learning  the  Figure  Three,  and  if 
he  were  to  perfect  it,  must  have  practice  over  the 
turn.  "  A  snidey  thing "  the  thermometer,  and  when 


The  Rolling  Stone 


no  one  was  looking  he  shook  it  in  the  hope  of  causing 
the  mercury  to  fall.  Its  continued  rise  even  after  this 
treatment  was  to  him  incomprehensible,  a  piece  of 
spite. 

The  thaw  came  hesitatingly,  to  be  held  up  by  a  wind 
from  the  north-east,  a  black  wind  and  a  bitter.  If  the 
water  had  been  running  in  every  dyke,  the  grass  showing 
a  young  growth,  Harry  must  have  accepted  the  inevi- 
table, but  the  land  was  still  locked  in  frozen  sleep.  His 
form-master  had  spoken  of  a  tragedy  which  was  respon- 
sible for  stringency  on  the  part  of  the  authorities  ;  but 
Harry,  listening,  had  been  unmoved.  He  had  once  had 
his  hand  told  by  a  gipsy,  and  she  had  promised  him  a 
long  and  adventurous  career.  While  Mr.  Cobb  was  de- 
scribing the  return  of  the  disobedient  Ellis  —  on  a  hurdle 
covered  with  a  brown-and-yellow  horse-cloth  —  Harry  was 
saying  to  himself,  "  A  long  life  and  lots  of  changes  !  A 
long  life  and  lots  of  changes  !  " 

Two  days  previously  the  boys  had  been  skating  by 
moonlight,  and  Harry's  thoughts  returned  persistently 
to  his  experience.  He  did  his  lessons  ill  because,  between 
his  eyes  and  the  printed  page  rose  the  vision  of  a  sheet 
of  smooth  grey  ice,  stretching  from  a  belt  of  trees  into 
the  colourlessness  of  frost  and  flat  fields  and  the  wintry 
night.  He  did  his  lessons  so  ill  that  when  morning  school 
was  over  he  found  himself  in  the  master's  study  waiting 
to  be  caned. 

He  had  not  hitherto  been  in  this  room,  and,  with  the 
instinct  of  a  little  animal  which  may  need  at  any  moment 
a  means  of  egress,  he  subjected  it  to  a  quick  scrutiny. 
The  brain  dominating  that  stiff,  compact  body  was  full 
of  half-formed  plans.  At  any  moment  circumstance 
might  make  one  or  other  of  them  possible,  and  for  this 
he  was  ardently  on  the  look-out.  His  roving  glance, 


54 The  Rolling  Stone 

passing  lightly  over  furniture  and  bookshelves  and  less 
lightly  over  some  African  curios,  came  to  rest  on  a  French 
window  which  opened  into  a  walled  garden.  He  stepped 
up  to  it  and  studied  such  details  as  the  height  of  the 
walls,  the  branches  of  adjacent  trees  which  could  be 
climbed,  the  lie  of  the  rough  ground  beyond.  The  house 
faced  the  abbey,  the  garden  sloping  towards  the  river; 
and  so  small  was  Cheeley,  such  a  mere  wraith  of  its 
monkish  self,  that  although  the  school  was  in  the  heart 
of  the  town,  its  grounds  were  bounded  by  rich  pasture- 
lands.  The  market  square,  with  Corn  and  Hop  Exchange, 
the  lanes  branching  from  it  and  full  of  decaying  business 
premises,  some  fine  houses  wrapping  their  age  in  a  cloak 
of  ancient  trees,  were  all  that  remained  of  the  once  famous 
cathedral  town ;  and  Harry,  looking  out  of  Mr.  Deacon's 
window,  saw  only  fields  and  river  and  a  distant  farm. 
The  garden  called  to  him,  offering  its  solitude,  its  low 
walls,  its  position ;  and  he  wondered  whether  his  house- 
master used  the  study  of  an  evening,  and  if  so,  at  what 
time  he  went  to  bed.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  man's' 
habits,  but  a  young  Mrs.  Deacon  existed  stylishly  in 
another  part  of  the  house,  and  it  might  be  that  he  spent 
his  evenings  with  her.  The  fireless  grate  made  this  ap- 
pear likely,  and  when  Mr.  Deacon  came  hurriedly  in, 
though  Harry  made  the  customary  excuses,  offered  the 
customary  pleas,  accepted  his  fate  with  the  customary 
air  of  submitting,  because  he  must,  to  rank  injustice, 
his  mind  continued  busy  with  the  garden-door  and  Mr. 
Deacon's  habits.  With  regard  to  these  latter,  a  cautious 
study  of  the  young  master's  face  helped  him  no  whit. 
It  was  fair  to  redness,  a  nondescript  in  faces,  the  sort  for 
which  Harry,  seeking  quality,  had  no  use.  Contrasting 
it  swiftly,  contemptuously,  with  that  of  the  head  master, 


The  Rolling  Stone  55 

he  decided  to  give  the  plan  now  maturing  itself  in  his 
brain  "  a  go." 

To  keep  awake  was  easy,  and  at  twelve  that  night  a 
shadow  stole  through  the  dimly  lighted  house.  Harry, 
skates  slung  round  his  neck  and  boots  in  hand,  pushed 
open  the  baize  door  which  divided  Mr.  Deacon's  life  and 
house  into  two  parts.  The  key  had  been  turned  in  the 
study  door,  and  as  it  was  rolled  back  the  wards  clicked 
with  an  unoiled,  metallic  sound.  During  the  afternoon 
Harry  had  discovered  that  the  master's  bedroom  was 
over  the  study.  He  paused  to  listen,  but  no  further 
sound  broke  the  quiet.  As  wind  drowns  sound,  the 
boy  could  have  wished  the  night  had  not  been  so  still. 
He  stole  cautiously  across  the  study  and,  sitting  on  the 
mat  before  the  door,  put  on  his  boots.  Fear,  not  so  much 
of  discovery  and  punishment  as  of  being  prevented,  made 
his  ears  feel  as  if  they  were  growing.  Unhasping  the 
glass  door  and  drawing  it  to  behind  him,  he  stepped  lightly 
on  to  the  frozen  grass.  The  night  was  calling  to  him  and 
the  spirit  in  him  that  loved  change  and  risk  was  answering 
on  a  jubilant  note.  He  scudded  across  the  lawn  and  in 
a  twinkling  was  over  the  wall.  His  feet,  crunching  the 
rime,  broke  some  thin  plates  of  ice,  and  he  heard  the 
little  crisp  sounds  with  a  sense  of  rapture.  The  light  of 
the  waning  moon  was  bright  enough  for  him  to  see  his 
way,  and,  in  an  ecstasy  of  being,  he  sprang  and  danced  as 
he  ran  joyously  from  field  to  field  and  along  the  road.  He 
was  free.  He  had  left  behind  him  the  routine,  the  tame- 
ness,  the  subjection.  For  an  hour  or  two  he  could  be 
himself. 

Arrived  at  the  ponds,  Harry  found  a  long  lane  of 
smooth  ice,  snow-banks  on  either  side,  a  low-lit  whiteness 
and  blackness  that  faded  into  grey  mist.  The  loneliness 


56 The  Rolling  Stone 

was  entirely  to  his  taste,  and  for  two  hours  he  practised 
the  Three,  also  the  sweeping  curves  of  Figure  Eight, 
absorbed  and  happy,  a  little  engine  working  full  belt. 
As  the  moon  declined,  however,  practical  considerations 
began  to  intrude  themselves,  and  he  was  presently  trotting 
homeward.  He  was  tired,  but  he  had  had  his  way,  and 
if  the  frost  lasted,  might  look  forward  to  another  night 
of  freedom. 

In  this  hope  he  vaulted  the  low  wall  of  Mr.  Deacon's 
garden  and  made  for  the  house.  Darkness  was  creeping 
over  the  earth,  hiding  the  saliences,  making  the  school- 
buildings  something  black  and  indistinguishable ;  but 
Harry's  seeking  hand  fell  lightly  on  the  glass  door.  It 
yielded  to  his  cautious  push,  and,  stepping  in,  he  fastened 
it  securely,  then  sat  down  and  began  to  unlace  his  boots. 
On  the  polished  boards  by  the  window  the  lace-tags  fell 
with  a  tiny  click  which  made  his  heart  leap.  He  had  put 
off  freedom,  he  had  left  his  courage  with  the  night  and 
was  again  a  boy  under  authority,  his  one  thought  how 
to  escape  the  punishment  he  had  merited,  how  to  pass 
from  mat  to  carpet  without  a  sound,  how  to  climb  the 
stairs  without  making  them  creak,  how  to  slip  past  his 
schoolfellows'  beds  in  the  dormitory  without  being 
seen. 

The  boots  were  safely  shed  and  Harry  was  stealing  out 
of  the  study  when  the  unforeseen  happened.  Mr.  Deacon 
was  plagued  with  unsound  teeth,  and,  wakening  to  pain, 
had  got  up  in  search  of  a  remedy.  Where  was  the 
Bunter's  Nervine?  Only  a  brown  stain  on  the  shelf 
above  the  washstand  showed  the  anguished  man  where  it 
had  stood.  He  remembered  then  that  he  had  had  it 
that  afternoon  in  the  study,  and  was  on  his  way,  candle 
in  hand,  to  fetch  it  when  Harry  opened  the  door.  For  a 
moment  master  and  boy  faced  each  other  in  horrified 


The  Rolling  Stone 57 

silence,  Mr.  Deacon  forgetting  that  his  teeth  ached  and 
Harry  conscious  of  that  sinking  with  which  we  greet  force 
at  once  superior  and  menacing. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  Collecting  himself,  the 
master  led  the  boy  back  into  the  cold,  dark  room. 

Harry,  caught  skates  in  hand,  thought  it  best  to  give 
a  truthful  account  of  the  expedition. 

In  Mr.  Deacon's  ear,  however,  the  tale  rang  false. 
Ridiculous  to  suppose  that  a  boy  had  broken  out  of  the 
house  in  order  to  practise  figure-skating;  to  practise  it 
all  by  himself,  too,  on  a  distant  pond. 

"  It  was  market-day,"  he  said  severely,  as  he  reached 
for  his  cane,  "  the  monthly  market." 

Harry,  a  little  puzzled,  acquiesced. 

"  Why  couldn't  you  say  at  once  that  you  went  to  the 
booths  and  theatre?  " 

"  I  didn't,  sir." 

"You  didn't?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  You  went  through  the  town." 

"  No,  sir." 

"  You  couldn't  have  got  to  the  Old  Ponds  without 
going  down  the  High  Street." 

"  I  went  across  the  fields." 

"  You  mean  to  tell  me  you  went  all  that  way 
round?  " 

"  I  went  across  the  fields." 

Mr.  Deacon  caned  him,  firstly  for  being  out  without 
leave,  secondly  for  having  lied  about  it ;  and  Harry  would 
have  accepted  the  punishment  without  troubling  his  head 
if,  when  it  was  over,  the  master  had  not  talked  for  some 
minutes  on  the  iniquity  of  trying  to  impose  on  him.  The 
voice,  which  fell  exasperatingly  on  the  boy's  ear,  droned 
on,  and  a  little  hot  feeling  began  to  stir  in  Harry's  heart, 


58 The  Rolling  Stone 

to  quicken,  to  increase.  He  felt  a  trickle  over  the  scalp, 
and  the  trickle  made  him  interject  little  breathless 
answers.  They  had  the  effect  of  further  annoying  Mr. 
Deacon.  Why  could  not  the  boy  own  up  to  what  was 
self-evident  ?  Instead : 

"  I'm  not  accustomed,  sir,  to  being  told  I'm  a  liar  even 
by  a  master." 

The  hazel  eyes  stared  defiance  out  of  a  white  face. 

"  If  you  are  impertinent  I'll  report  you  to  the  head 
master." 

"  I  wish  you  would." 

"  Write  me  out  a  thousand  lines." 

"  Certainly." 

Harry  marched  off  to  the  dormitory,  uneasy  but  carry- 
ing off  some  of  the  honours.  He  had  not  knuckled  under 
to  "  Bert  " —  Deacon's  given  name  was  Herbert  —  and 
it  was  a  shame  that  when  a  boy  did  speak  the  truth  he 
should  not  be  believed.  If  he  were  reported  to  Dr.  Waugh 
he  would  continue  to  speak  it,  and  he  had  no  doubt  —  not 
a  shadow  of  a  doubt  —  but  that  the  great  man  would 
know  it.  Nevertheless  Dr.  Waugh  was  to  him  as  awful, 
though  not  as  unsympathetic,  as  his  mother's  god;  he 
was,  too,  of  the  same  stuff;  and  Harry  knew  the  gods 
disapproved  of  everything  pleasurable  that  a  boy 
did. 

He  sat  the  following  afternoon  in  the  long  classroom, 
a  sheet  of  paper  on  the  desk  before  him.  He  should  have 
been  writing  out  the  thousand  lines,  but  his  pen  was 
dry  and  the  piece  of  quicksilver  he  thought  of  as  his 
body  was  still.  Not  that  he  was  at  rest,  but  that  his 
mind  was  concentrated  on  a  momentous  question. 


The  Rolling  Stone  59 


Should  he  or  should  he  not? 

Under  the  question  was  a  mounting  sense  of  excitement, 
a  feeling  that  warmed  him,  that  tingled  through  that 
quiescent  body.  The  vision  of  a  ship  sailing  down  the 
sea-roads,  the  vision  he  had  brought  from  Bristol  and 
which  had  been  temporarily  blotted  out  by  skating,  had 
returned.  He  saw  it  now,  with  himself  on  board,  himself 
a  part  of  that  straining,  leaping  life;  saw  the  roll  and 
heave  of  water,  the  slope  of  decks,  the  strange  crying 
of  birds  —  saw  it  so  clearly  that  he  passed  his  tongue  over 
his  lips  for  the  salt  that  should  have  been  on  them,  saw 
it  with  such  longing  that  he  must  lay  his  head  on  the 
desk  with  a  dry  sob. 

A  boy  came  into  the  classroom  for  a  book  he  had 
forgotten  —  a  whistling,  careless  boy,  who,  glancing  at 
Harry,  remembered  that  he  had  broken  out  of  the  house 
to  go  skating. 

"  I  say,  you've  got  a  nerve." 

"  Bert  didn't  believe  me." 

"  The  chap's  a  putrid  ass.  Can't  think  where  the  old 
War-horse  got  him.  What's  he  given  you?  " 

"  A  thousand  lines." 

"  Phew !  " 

He  lingered  for  a  few  minutes,  hunting  in  impossible 
places  for  the  lost  book.  "  I  say,  Bear,  next  time  you 
get  up  to  larks,  you  might  let  me  come  too?  " 

Harry  shook  his  head.  "  There  won't  be  any  next 
time.  I'm  fed  up  with  this  place." 

He  had  had  enough  of  Cheeley,  where  if  you  did  tell  the 
truth  you  weren't  believed.  He  had  had  enough  of  sit- 
ting on  a  form  at  a  desk.  He  had  had  enough  of  being 


60 The  Rolling  Stone 

caged  and  driven,  of  being  shut  in  such  a  little,  little 
cage. 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  the  other  boy  vaguely,  and  went  off, 
whistling. 

Mr.  Deacon,  looking  idly  out  of  an  upper  window  while 
he  waited  for  Mrs.  Deacon  in  order  that  they  might  re- 
turn some  calls  and  drink  some  lukewarm  tea  in  the  draw- 
ing-rooms of  other  masters,  had  his  interest  quickened 
by  the  sight  of  a  small  boy  walking  down  the  road. 
Harry  should  have  been  shut  in  the  long  schoolroom, 
at  work  on  the  thousand  lines.  Mr.  Deacon  stared,  but 
there  was  no  mistaking  the  thick-set  figure,  the  air  as 
of  an  engine,  compact,  well  oiled,  and  with  every  part 
in  working  order.  In  one  hand  the  boy  held  a  cricketing- 
bag.  He  was  walking  at  a  round  pace  —  almost,  Mr. 
Deacon  thought  whimsically,  as  if  he  had  to  catch  a 
train. 

"  I  told  him  to  stay  in  till  the  lines  were  written,"  said 
the  master  to  himself.  "  The  young  beggar !  I'll  give 
it  to  him  when  he  comes  back." 

But  Harry  did  not  come  back. 


Chapter  V 


"\  "IT  TILL  they  take  Harry  back  at  the  school?  " 
%/%/     Robert  Hall,  standing  beside  his  brother-in- 
T    T       law  on  the  quay-side,  was  watching  an  old 
tub,  laden  with  fruit  from  Spain,  make  fast.     Unless  they 
had  been  misinformed,  his  errant  nephew  was  on  board. 

"  I  haven't  asked  them  to." 

"  Thought  you  were  so  keen  on  book-learning." 

"  The  boy  has  had  his  chance." 

"  Found  you  couldn't  keep  his  nose  to  the  grindstone, 
eh?" 

Mr.  King  nodded  gloomily.  To  him  scholarship  was 
a  key  which  unlocked  doors.  Through  these  doors,  closed 
to  him,  their  father,  his  other  sons  would  walk.  They 
would  walk  away  from  him,  and  he  would  be  content. 
He  had  toiled  in  order  to  give  them  the  opportunity ;  they 
had  rewarded  him  by  grasping  it.  When  he  saw  them 
moving  on  an  equality  among  the  great  ones  of  the  earth 
he  would  be  more  than  content.  The  wind  blew  out  the 
skirts  of  his  black  shabby  coat,  the  coat  of  a  man  who 
sat  all  day  on  an  office-stool. 

"  I  don't  know  as  it  matters,"  continued  Robert  Hall. 
"  There's  some  born  to  bide  at  home  and  look  after 
things ;  but  there's  others  as  take  their  education  from 
going  up  and  down  the  earth." 

"'A  rolling  stone — '"  said  Mr.  King  bitterly.  "I 
wanted  my  boys  to  do  well." 

"  Ay,  it's  all  doing,  but  what's  doing?     This  little  chap 


61 


62 The  Rolling  Stone 

of  yours  '11  be  a  man,  and  you  can't  be  more'n  that." 

"  You  are  not  ambitious,  Robert."  He  spoke  a  little 
fretfully,  for  his  brother-in-law  had  a  way  of  declaring 
all  sorts  of  fine,  embossed  vessels  to  be  storehouses  of 
rubbish. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Richard?  " 

The  father  smiled,  that  smile  of  confidence  in  an  ideal. 
Richard  who  had  taken  scholarships,  who  was  going  to 
Oxford,  Richard  would  justify  him. 

"  Civil  Service,"  he  said  modestly,  and  saw  his  son  dis- 
pensing justice,  taking  with  an  easy  swagger  his  place 
among  the  rulers,  receiving  after  years  of  honourable 
service,  a  star,  a  riband  .  .  . 

"  A  perch  for  a  tame  bird,  seed  and  water,  and  perhaps 
a  bath!  And  James?  " 

But  Mr.  King  did  not  answer.  He  had  been  watching 
the  orange-laden  ship  and  had,  at  last,  caught  sight  of 
that  for  which  he  was  looking.  Towards  him,  across  the 
worn  grey  stones  of  the  quay,  came  a  blithe  lad,  in  his 
hand  an  old  red-and-yellow  carpet-bag.  Sea  winds  had 
blown  away  the  last  vestiges  of  the  delicacy  left  by 
rheumatic  fever,  and  Harry  was  twice  the  boy  who  a 
month  earlier  had  gone  down  the  school  road  in  a  hurry. 
The  little  craft  caught  sight  of  Mr.  King,  whose  city 
clothes  made  him  an  unusual  figure  in  the  waterside 
crowd,  and  for  a  moment  hung  in  the  wind.  That  figure 
reminded  the  boy  of  a  certain  strap  hanging  from  a 
certain  nail.  He  had  intended,  on  reaching  Bristol,  to 
take  the  few  shillings  owing  to  him  and  ship  again,  this 
time  on  a  longer  voyage. 

'*  The  young  devil  thinks  he  is  going  to  have  his  hide 
tanned,"  said  the  father,  and  the  fact  that  he  was  glad 
to  see  his  boy,  to  be  relieved  of  an  unacknowledged 
anxiety,  brightened  his  face.  Harry,  reading  the  signs 


The  Polling  Stone  63 

aright  and,  on  the  whole,  pleased  to  see  a  familiar  figure, 
came  up  to  the  men. 

"  Where  have  you  been?  " 

"  To  Spain." 

"Why  did  you  go?" 

"  Dimno."     His  going  was  ancient  history. 

"  Well,  come  on  now  to  the  station.  There's  a  train  in 
half  an  hour." 

Harry  yielded  without  so  much  as  a  backward  glance. 
He  walked  beside  his  father,  answering  that  father's  ques- 
tions as  to  the  voyage  —  opening  out,  in  fact,  as  soon 
as  he  saw  that  he  was  to  escape  punishment.  Under  his 
prattle,  however,  lay  resolve,  the  resolve  to  return.  Hav- 
ing once  asserted  his  independence,  he  could  do  it 
again. 

And  Mr.  King  was  conscious  of  this  underlying  hard- 
ness. Harry  could  feed  and  clothe  himself  and  Harry 
knew  it. 

The  father  had  realized  that  the  stairway  of  books  was 
not  one  his  boy  could  climb,  and  he  knew  of  no  other  that 
led  to  social  consideration.  If  there  were  no  Jacob's  lad- 
der for  Harry,  however,  at  least  he  should  have  a  trade. 
In  the  railway  pic  were  plums  for  the  "  little  Jack  Hom- 
ers," if  only  they  would  be  "  good  boys  " ;  and,  whether  or 
no  Harry  "  steadied  down,"  trained  fingers  would  enable 
him,  at  all  times  and  in  all  countries,  to  earn  a  living. 

II 

"  I  want  to  go  to  sea." 
"  You  are  going  into  the  works." 
"  I  want  to  get  about  a  bit  and  see  the  world." 
"  A  right  engineer  gets  about  nearly  as  much  as  a  sailor 
and  earns  better  money." 


64  The  Rolling  Stone 

Harry  considered.  "  They  have  engineers  on  board 
ship." 

"  Later  on  you  might  have  a  try  for  the  Navy." 

In  the  end  it  was  agreed  between  father  and  son  that 
Harry  should  sandwich  between  the  hard  slices  of  appren- 
ticeship any  meat  of  travel  that  might  offer.  In  this 
way,  during  the  next  five  years  his  feet  trod  the  cobble- 
stones of  Copenhagen,  he  saw  Stamboul  with  the  morning 
sun  upon  its  domes,  and  drove  more  than  once  through 
a  stiff  gale  in  the  Bay. 

He  had  gone  into  the  railway  shops  a  little  reluctantly, 
but  given  a  job  on  a  nut-lathe,  found  it  more  to  his  taste 
than  anything  that  had  had  to  do  with  books.  Cleverness 
Harry  regarded  as  a  quality  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  capacity.  Though  proud  of  Richard  as  a  credit  to 
the  family,  he  had  for  his  scholarship  a  secret  contempt. 
He  felt,  though  he  could  not  have  found  words  to  express 
his  thought,  that  the  scholar  is  the  amateur,  playing  at 
life,  that  his  brilliant  display  is  of  no  value,  that  a  man 
should  spend  his  strength  making  something  of  practical 
value  to  the  community.  The  opportunity  to  do  this  hav- 
ing been  given  him,  he  accepted  it  without  enthusiasm 
but  with  the  conviction  that  he  was  on  the  right  tack. 
Though  his  inclinations  favoured  a  wandering  life,  a  life 
of  fighting  and  adventure,  in  him  was  the  sober  idealism 
of  his  father  and  the  strange  quality  of  a  dead  grand- 
father, presumably  Russian,  who,  fleeing  from  tyranny, 
had  scattered  the  seed  of  his  dreams  on  English  soil. 

"How  did  you  get  on?"  asked  Mr.  King,  joining  the 
boy  as  he  left  the  works  at  the  end  of  the  first  day. 

"  All  right." 

"  There  are  as  good  chaps  in  the  engineering  shops  as 
anywhere  else." 

Harry,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  men's  talk,  wished 


The  Rolling  Stone  '65 

that  Mr.  King  could  have  heard  it.  He  had  noticed  how- 
ever, that  on  his  father's  appearance  other  men  fell 
silent. 

"  They  play  shove-ha'penny."  He  had  seen  a  group 
of  middle-aged  men  in  the  toolmakers'  shop  intent  on 
their  game. 

"  The  apprentices  may,"  said  Mr.  King,  "  but  don't 
you  follow  their  example.  Your  foreman,  now  —  do  as 
he  does  and  you'll  be  all  right." 

The  foreman  had  been  among  the  players;  his  eyes 
had  had  a  glint  in  them,  his  hatchet-face  had  been  eager, 
it  had  been  evident  he  was  enjoying  himself.  Harry  re- 
solved that  he  would  try  his  hand  at  shove-ha'penny. 

"  You're  in  a  fine  muck,"  said  his  mother,  as  he  fol- 
lowed Mr.  King  into  the  house.  "  Take  the  dipper  and 
go  out  into  the  yard." 

"  He  can't  wash  in  the  yard,"  expostulated  Mr.  King. 

"  He  can't  wash  in  my  clean  scullery." 

"  But,  er  —  the  people  next  door  .  .  ." 

"  They  won't  be  looking  over  the  wall,  and  besides, 
he  isn't  a  girl." 

Harry,  discarding  his  greasy  clothes  for  an  old  but 
clean  suit,  proceeded  to  cram  his  leisure  hours  with  oc- 
cupation. 

"  Born  in  a  hurry,"  said  Mrs.  King  as  she  watched  him 
bolt  his  tea,  "  and  been  in  a  hurry  ever  since."  But  be- 
fore long  a  period  was  set  to  Harry's  hurryings.  While 
filing  an  axle  his  shirt-sleeve  was  caught  in  the  machinery. 
Being  stout,  the  stuff  held,  and  though  Harry,  awake  to 
his  danger,  wrenched  at  it  with  all  his  strength,  the  arm 
was  drawn  in.  Such  accidents  being  of  frequent  occur- 
rence in  engineering  shops,  the  limb  was  quickly  extri- 
cated and  the  bone  set.  Harry  was  told  to  go  home, 
and,  though  a  little  dizzy,  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  go 


66  The  Rolling  Stone 

in  any  but  the  usual  way.  With  coat  slung  across  the 
damaged  arm  —  for,  much  as  he  liked  the  limelight,  he 
was  not  proud  of  having  been  caught  napping  —  he  stag- 
gered through  the  streets.  One  of  the  curates  of  St. 
Luke's  passed  him  with  a  greeting,  but  the  words,  though 
they  reached  his  ear,  had  an  impersonal  sound,  and  he  did 
not  answer. 

"Do  you  see  that  boy?"  said  the  curate  to  his  com- 
panion. "  His  father  attends  our  church.  Shocking, 
isn't  it?" 

The  friend,  glancing  after  Harry,  noticed  only  the 
uncertain  gait.  "  There  ought  to  be  a  law  that  lads  of 
that  age  are  not  to  be  supplied  with  anything  stronger 
than  lemonade ! " 

As  Harry  came  out  of  the  gates  the  timekeeper,  a 
family  man,  had  asked  if  he  would  like  somebody  to  go 
home  with  him,  and  the  boy  had  shaken  his  head.  He  did 
not  feel  ill,  only  languid.  His  arm  ached,  and  between 
him  and  the  sounds  and  movement  of  the  town  was  a  thin 
mist ;  he  looked  through  it  and  saw  men  as  trees  walking. 
He  himself  was  lapped  in  a  curious  stillness,  and  though 
he  saw  and  heard,  the  voices  and  the  figures  remained 
outside  the  mist.  It  was  odd  but  not  unpleasant.  He 
wished,  however,  that  it  were  not  so  great  an  effort  to  lift 
and  set  down  his  feet,  he  could  get  on  more  quickly.  As 
he  turned  into  the  quiet  road,  lined  with  houses  of  which 
the  last  was  his  home,  his  fancy  ran  before  him  to  the  end. 
He  saw  it  vividly  —  the  house  Mr.  King  had  built  with 
his  savings !  One  step  and  another  step.  Strange  how 
often  he  seemed  to  be  slipping  over  the  curb,  and  now  the 
trees  were  as  men  walking  and  the  houses  leaned  out  of 
the  perpendicular.  How  funny  of  them !  He  wished  he 
could  laugh,  but  for  some  reason  laughter  was  beyond 


The  Rolling  Stone  67 

him ;  all  he  could  do  was  to  lift  those  heavy  feet  one  after 
another,  one  after  the  other.  .  .  . 

When  Mrs.  King  came  to  the  door  she  found  her  son 
lying  in  an  untidy  heap  on  the  rough  granite  of  the  step. 


Ill 

The  arm  healed  by  first  intention,  but  not  before 
Harry's  restless  energy  had  turned  three  admiring  little 
sisters  into  pillars  of  exasperation.  "  I  hate  you,"  said 
Bet,  and  Nancy  joined  in  the  chorus;  even  little  Mab, 
mourning  a  beheaded  doll,  muttered,  "  'Ates  you !  Bad 
boy !  'Ates  you  !  " 

At  a  loose  end,  Harry  took  his  idle  hands  into  the 
highways  and  byways,  and  the  little  girls,  hugging 
menaced  treasures,  rejoiced  to  see  him  go.  His  mother, 
too  busy  with  her  domestic  duties  to  spare  time  for  him, 
merely  put  a  perfunctory  question. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"Up  the  street." 

"Ay,  but  where?" 

"For  a  walk." 

"  Then  don't  get  into  mischief." 

At  the  top  of  the  town  was  a  little  pub  in  which  congre- 
gated those  abandoned  boys  who  play  Snooker  and  Crown 
and  Anchor. 

They  also  drank  a  little  beer.  Harry  joined  them  in 
the  games  but  not  in  the  beer  —  his  father  did  not  ap- 
prove of  beer-drinking  and  his  father  was  a  good  man. 
Good?  Did  good  mean  a  person  who  refrained  because  it 
was  his  nature  to  refrain?  He,  Harry,  meant  to  experi- 
ment with  the  forbidden  fruit.  He  only  did  not  drink  beer 
because  he  did  not  like  the  taste. 


68  The  Rolling  Stone 


IV 

When  Richard  and  James  came  from  school  for  the 
holidays  they  found  Harry  in  possession  of  the  attic 
to  which  age  gave  them  the  prior  claim.  His  belongings 
had  overflowed  into  every  drawer  of  the  chest  and  he 
occupied  the  more  comfortable  of  the  two  beds. 

"  Look  here,  Bear,  you've  got  to  muck  in  with  James ; 
that's  my  bed." 

"  It  isn't,  then.  This  is  my  room ;  I  have  it  all  the 
year  round  and  you're  only  home  for  the  holidays.  I 
say,  James,  stop  that." 

James  was  industriously  turning  out  the  contents  of 
the  middle  drawer,  preparatory  to  replacing  them  with 
the  clothes  he  had  brought  from  school.  The  only  notice 
he  took  was  to  dump  a  heap  of  shirts  on  the  floor. 

In  the  scrimmage  that  ensued  it  looked  for  a  moment 
as  if  Harry  would  get  the  better  of  it.  This  could  not 
be  allowed.  The  youngster  was  already  a  good  deal  too 
cocky,  and  seniority  must  prevail.  Richard  intervening, 
matters  were  arranged  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  older 
boys,  and  Harry,  darkly  surmising  that  a  day  would  come, 
accepted  his  fate.  The  fact  was  that,  though  nothing 
would  have  induced  him  to  give  up  his  rights  —  or  other 
people's  —  without  a  struggle,  the  return  of  his  brothers 
had  excited  and  pleased  him.  He  was  a  full-blown  ap- 
prentice, a  wage-earner,  but  the  others  were  public-school 
men! 

From  the  moment  of  their  arrival  he  had  hung  about, 
listening  to  their  talk  of  Cheeley,  and,  almost,  he  found 
it  in  his  wild  heart  to  envy  them. 

"  You  going  to  bed?  "  he  asked  Richard.  It  was  after 
ten  and  the  older  boys  had  begun  to  peel. 


The  Rolling  Stone 69 

"I'm  not  particular.     Why?" 

"Let's  have  a  jape." 

Richard  rolled  up  his  tie  and  put  it  on  the  mantel- 
shelf. 

"What  sort  of  a  jape?" 

"  I  dare  you  to  play  Captain  Webb."  A  spirit  in  his 
feet  had  drawn  Harry  down  the  room,  and  he  now  stood 
by  the  hearth,  his  eyes  observant  of  his  brother.  Richard 
with  his  well-cut  clothes,  his  toilet  niceties,  his  lordly 
manner,  was  to  the  roughly  dressed  lad  the  incarnation 
of  splendour.  Harry  decided  to  let  his  mother  go  to 
chapel  by  herself  the  following  Sunday;  he  would  accom- 
pany Richard  to  church.  He  would  let  the  railway  town 
know  this  was  his  brother! 

"  Captain  Webb?  "  Richard  got  out  his  razors  and 
put  them  on  the  washstand.  Razors ! 

"  Yes ;  you  know  —  when  he  dashes  in  and  saves  the 
child." 

James,  having  unpacked  to  the  last  tie  and  handker- 
chief, sauntered  idly  towards  them.  "  What's  this  ?  " 

Harry  turned.  James  did  not  count;  he  was  neither 
this  nor  that.  "  You  daren't  play  Captain  Webb  from 
the  chest  of  drawers  to  our  bed." 

"What  — jump?" 

"  Yes.  You  drive  across,  then  swim  over  and  get  the 
child  —  just  as  it's  sinking  for  the  third  time!" 

The  others  looked  at  the  gulf,  full  a  dozen  feet  from 
chest  to  bed,  and  Richard  shook  his  head.  "  No,  Bear, 
can't  be  done." 

"Pooh!     I've  done  it." 

"  When  the  bed  was  nearer  the  chest." 

"  No,  as  they  are." 

"  Go  on,  Old  Blow-Hard." 

"I'll  show  you,  then." 


70 The  Rolling  Stone 

Swinging  himself  on  to  the  chest,  he  sprang  off,  alight- 
ing on  the  mattress  of  the  double  bed  in  a  spread-eagle. 
Working  his  arms  and  legs,  he  propelled  himself  smoothly 
over  the  further  side. 

"  See?  You  dive,  then  you  swim.  The  child  is  here." 
He  reappeared,  holding  the  boots  Richard  had  just  kicked 
off.  "  Here  it  is." 

"  I'll  have  a  shot."  Richard  climbed  on  to  the  chest 
of  drawers  and  jumped.  James  followed.  The  leap  was 
well  within  their  powers. 

"  Let's  see  who  can  do  it  quickest,"  said  Harry,  after 
each  had  rescued  the  boots  as  often  as  he  wished. 

"  How?  "  James  asked  the  question  —  James  who  had 
been  nicknamed  by  his  father  "  the  Old  Codger  "  because 
in  his  veins  ran  something  more  like  blood  than  quick- 
silver. 

"  We'll  each  do  it  three  times  running  and  time  our- 
selves by  Richard's  watch." 

"  All  right." 

The  striking  of  active  bodies  in  quick  succession  on  the 
mattress  had  pushed  it  aside,  leaving  the  iron  framework 
of  the  bed  exposed.  Moreover,  the  leap  proving  easily 
negotiable  and  no  interruption  coming  from  outside,  the 
boys  had  grown  careless.  They  laughed  and  shouted  as 
they  jumped. 

"  I'll  go  first,"  said  Richard,  handing  his  watch  to 
James.  Though  Harry  had  invented  the  game,  he  must 
be  made  to  remember  he  was  only  the  little  brother; 
and  Harry  was  content.  He  stood  looking  on.  Rich- 
ard's jumps  were  neat  and  finished,  he  was  like  a  cat;  but 
James  scrambled,  he  took  off  clumsily,  he  fell  like  a  sack 
of  potatoes,  he  did  not  at  once  swim  headlong  over  the 
side.  "  I'm  quicker  than  James,"  thought  the  little 
brother. 


The  Rolling  Stone 71 

When  his  turn  came  he  launched  himself  laughingly 
into  space.  He  felt  sure  of  his  landing,  so  sure  that  he 
did  not  look  before  he  sprang  away.  If  only  he  could  do 
the  three  dives  in  as  short  a  time  as  Richard ;  not  so 
neatly,  of  course,  but  in  as  short  a  time !  His  heart  was 
whispering  to  him  of  a  quicker  leap  and  a  quicker. 

James,  clumsy  and  heavy,  had  thrust  the  mattress  yet 
further  from  the  iron  edge  of  the  bedstead,  and  Harry, 
leaping  too  hastily,  fell  short.  Picking  himself  up,  he 
staggered  to  the  nearest  chair. 

"  I've  cut  my  leg." 

"  I  don't  wonder !  "  Conscious  that  he  had  not  done 
well,  James  felt  an  ugly  satisfaction  in  his  brother's  mis- 
hap, felt  it  until  he  saw  the  cut.  "  Oh,  I  say,  Bear  .  .  ." 

"  Here,  let's  see,"  and  then  Richard  too  stood  silent. 

Falling  with  considerable  force  on  the  iron  edge,  Harry 
had  laid  open  his  leg  in  a  diagonal  cut,  a  couple  of  inches 
below  the  knee.  The  blood  was  running  down  the  limb, 
dripping  on  to  the  oilcloth,  gathering  in  a  dark  little  pool. 

"  Why,  you've  cut  it  to  the  bone !  "  cried  James,  realiz- 
ing, with  some  excitement,  that  the  hardness  behind  the 
gash  was  actually  the  bone  of  his  brother's  leg. 

"  Horrible !  "  said  Richard,  and  proceeded,  sombrely, 
to  hunt  for  a  handkerchief.  "  I'll  do  it  up  for  you." 

Harry  was  twisting  himself  round  so  as  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  bone.  He  was  more  interested  than  horrified. 
"  Never  seen  one  of  my  bones  before.  You  know,  I  broke 
my  arm  last  half,  but  it  didn't  come  through." 

"  What  will  father  say?  "  asked  James,  waking  to  an- 
other aspect  of  the  matter. 

Mr.  King  was  a  man  who  kept  order  in  his  household, 
exercising  a  wholesome  discipline.  They  should  have 
been  in  bed  and  asleep.  The  boys  looked  at  each  other 
in  consternation.  Even  Richard,  that  great  man  who  had 


72          The  Rolling  Stone 

won  a  scholarship  which  would  take  him  to  Balliol, 
trembled  as  he  thought  of  the  just  wrath  of  that  greater 
man,  his  father. 

"  And  who,"  pursued  James,  "  is  going  to  tell  him  ?  " 

Richard,  by  this  time  busily  bandaging  the  cut  in  the 
rough-and-ready  fashion  of  the  football  field,  showed  no 
inclination  to  claim  his  rights  as  the  eldest;  and  James 
was  never  one  to  put  himself  forward.  Remained  Harry, 
who  felt  that  his  father  would  blame  him  as  originator 
of  the  unlucky  "  jape."  The  others,  being  only  that  day 
from  school,  would  be  treated  with  leniency,  but  there 
was  little  hope  for  him.  Glancing  at  his  leg,  he  saw  that 
the  blood  was  soaking  through  the  white  bandage.  His 
father  would  be  very  angry,  justifiably  angry.  It  would 
be  wise,  perhaps,  to  wait  till  morning. 

"Don't  let's   bother  about  it  tonight." 

Richard,  washing  his  ensanguined  hands,  wondered  if 
they  might  put  off  the  reckoning.  "  Well,  but  there's 
your  leg.  .  .  ." 

"  That's  just  it.     I'm  always  getting  into  scrapes." 

"What  do  you  think,  James?" 

"  I  don't  know."  He  had  decided  that  he  would  do 
nothing.  The  accident,  such  an  unlooked-for  ending  to 
a  silly  but  harmless  game,  made  him  feel  angry.  He  had 
not  deserved  it.  The  Codger  was  a  good  lad  and,  as  his 
mother  said,  no  trouble.  It  annoyed  him  to  think  that 
the  first  evening  he  was  back  from  school  he  should  have 
got  into  mischief.  He  hadn't  either ;  it  was  Harry  — 
Harry  who  was  always  in  hot  water.  Oh,  confound 
Harry ! 

Richard,  catching  a  glimpse  of  his  brother's  set  face, 
saw  that  "  Old  Jimmy  "  did  not  mean  to  help. 

"  The  pater  will  hold  us  responsible." 

That  was  the  worst  of  it.     Harry  had  invented  the 


The  Rolling  Stone  73 

game  but  they  would  be  held  responsible.  "  I  don't 
care." 

Richard,  knowing  that  in  face,  height,  and  build  he 
resembled  his  father,  struck  one  of  Mr.  King's  attitudes 
and  menaced  the  others  with  an  uplifted  hand.  His  con- 
sternation was  passing.  Sufficient  unto  the  day  .  .  . 
"  At  your  age  —  ought  to  have  known  better  —  thought  I 
could  have  trusted  you  —  a  bad  example  for  Harry !  As 
long  as  he's  here  by  himself  no  trouble  —  no  trouble  at  all 
—  but  directly  you  come  home  .  .  ." 

A  chuckle  from  Harry. 

"  Oh,  stow  it,  Richard ! "  But  the  Codger's  voice  was 
less  morose.  "  Look  here,  you  can  do  as  you  like,  but 
I'm  going  to  bed,"  and  he  began  to  push  the  mattress 
into  place. 

"  Me,  too,"  said  Harry,  and  tried  to  limp  across  from 
chair  to  bed.  "  Wow !  this  fellow's  got  me."  He  could 
not  put  his  foot  to  the  ground. 

Richard,  with  considerable  effort  —  for  Harry,  though 
short,  was  even  then  heavy  —  lifted  him  on  to  the  bed. 
"  Is  it  still  bleeding?  " 

"  It  feels  as  if  it  were.  Don't  you  think  you'd  better 
put  another  handkerchief  over  it?  " 

James,  at  full  length,  was  beginning  to  feel  sleepy. 
"  It'll  mess  the  bed  if  you  don't." 

Richard  readjusted  the  bandage.     "  How's  that?  " 

"  All  right."  Supported  by  the  springy  mattress,  the 
leg  felt  easier. 

"  Comfortable?     Do  you  think  you'll  go  to  sleep?  " 

"  Rather." 

Turning  out  the  gas,  Richard  got  into  bed.  It  was 
late  and  he  was  tired.  He  thought  kindly  of  the  little 
brother  on  the  far  side  of  the  room  and,  hoping  the  cut 
would  not  prove  serious,  fell  asleep.  James  also  slept, 


74 The  Rolling  Stone 

and  even  Harry  was  able  to  doze.     But  not  for  long. 

"  I  say,  Richard !  " 

A   grunt.     Richard   turned   over  and   slept   again. 

"Richard!" 

"  Um-m." 

"  Wish  you'd  turn  up  the  gas." 

"  What  for  ?  "  Richard's  grasp  on  events  had  slipped. 

"  My  leg  feels  damp ;  I  believe  it's  coming  through  the 
other  handkerchief." 

"Oh,  go  to  sleep." 

""I  —  can't."  The  voice  dropped  unhappily,  almost 
broke,  and  Richard  came  to  himself. 

"  Let's  have  a  look  at  it.  By  gum,  yes,  it's  still  bleed- 
ing." He  went  to  the  drawer  that  contained  his  hosiery. 
"  We  shall  have  to  go  slow,  I've  only  two  more  handker- 
chiefs." 

"  That'll  be  enough." 

"  Not  if  it  goes  on  till  morning." 

"  It's  nearly  morning  now." 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  I've  been  awake  hours  and  hours." 

Richard  looked  at  his  watch.  "  It's  ten  minutes  to 
two." 

He  went  back  to  bed,  and  Harry,  half-relieved  to  find 
that  his  leg  was  not  bleeding  as  freely  as  he  had  supposed 
yet  half-disappointed,  settled  down  again.  To  Richard 
it  seemed  as  if  he  had  only  been  asleep  a  minute  when 
the  little  brother's  voice  once  more  broke  in  upon  his 
dreams. 

"  Richard,  it's  trickling  down  my  leg." 

Four  or  five  times  that  night  he  was  called  on  to  minister 
to  Harry.  Considering  the  size  of  the  cut  and  that  the 
bone  had  been  laid  bare,  the  bleeding  was  not  excessive. 
A  very  little  blood,  however,  goes  a  long  way;  and,  in 


The  Rolling  Stone 75 

spite  of  the  boys'  care,  the  sheets  showed  a  confusion  of 
crimson. 

"  Mother  will  be  on  to  us  about  this,"  said  Richard 
at  last,  but  the  long  hours  of  pain  and  sleeplessness  had 
made  Harry  indifferent. 

"  I  don't  care." 

Richard,  tightening  the  knot  of  his  last  handkerchief, 
saw  that  the  boy's  face,  always  of  the  milky  tone  which 
holds  a  suggestion  of  blue,  was  shadowed  almost  to  grey- 
ness.  "  We  ought  to  have  gone  to  the  pater  last  night, 
I  can't  think  why  we  didn't." 

"  It  doesn't  matter." 

The  increasing  brightness  of  the  morning  sky  was  sham- 
ing the  gas-jet,  and  Richard  put  his  hand  to  the  tap. 
"  I  wish  we  had  now." 


No  need  that  day  to  call  the  boys,  they  were  up  and 
dressing  as  soon  as  the  household  was  astir.  As  they 
moved  about  they  conferred  as  to  what  should  be  done, 
but  without  coming  to  a  conclusion.  How  were  they  to 
account  to  their  parents  for  the  state  of  Harry's  leg? 
They  went  to  breakfast  with  lagging  steps  and,  not  know- 
ing what  to  say,  said  nothing. 

"Where's  Henry?" 

Mr.  King  had  discovered  the  empty  chair.  The  ques- 
tion not  being  addressed  to  any  one  in  particular,  was 
left  unanswered. 

"Isn't  he  up  yet?" 

He  turned  to  James,  who  sat  on  his  left;  and  the 
Codger,  drinking  coffee,  murmured  something  and  began 
to  cough. 

"  You  don't  think  so  ?  "     Mr.  King,  the  bacon  on  his 


76 The  Rolling  Stone 

plate  half-eaten,  pushed  back  his  chair.     "  He  isn't  often 
late." 

Going  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  he  called  on  the  absent 
one,  who,  though  he  heard,  thought  it  advisable  to  lie  low. 

"  Henry !  Henry !  "  A  pause.  "  The  boy  must  be 
asleep !  "  Conscious  of  something  unusual  in  the  atmos- 
phere, Mr.  King,  forgetful  of  congealing  bacon-fat,  ran 
up  the  stairs.  "  Henry !  Get  up." 

"  I  can't,  father." 

"  Eh?  " 

"  I've  got  a  bad  leg." 

"  Now  then,  none  of  your  shamming,  you  lazy  young 
dog ! "  He  thought  the  boy  was  scheming  for  a  day  off 
with  his  brothers.  "  Let's  have  a  look  at  it." 

Harry,  pulling  himself  up  in  bed,  displayed  the  blood- 
stained bandages. 

"  Hullo  !  What  is  this  ?  "  Mr.  King,  still  unbelieving, 
unfastened  them.  He  knew  boys,  a  humbugging  set  of 
rascals!  The  blood,  drying  on  the  handkerchief,  had 
glued  it  to  the  leg,  and  Mr.  King,  giving  it  a  tug,  was  con- 
fronted suddenly  with  the  gaping  cut.  His  face  changed. 
"How  did  you  do  it?" 

"  I  fell  against  the  edge  of  the  bed." 

"When?" 

"Last  night." 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  know?  " 

"  I  thought  it  would  be  all  right  in  the  morning." 

The  attic  window  was  between  the  bed  and  the  chest 
of  drawers.  Mr.  King  did  not  stay  for  further  parley. 
Harry  heard  his  steps  on  the  oilcloth  of  the  stairs,  heard 
a  door  bang,  and  from  his  eyrie  saw  his  father  running 
up  the  street.  The  coat-tails  of  the  long  black  figure 
were  flying,  the  hat  was  set  on  carelessly,  he  seemed  to 


The  Boiling  Stone 77 

be    wearing    seven-league    boots.     In  a    moment   he    had 
reached  the  corner,  turned  it  and  was  out  of  siffht. 

Could  he  —  the  vounsr  heart  swelled  with  importance- — 
oh,  could  he  be  going  for  the  doctor? 


Chapter  VI 


HARRY,  on  the  horsehair  sofa  at  the  end  of  the 
long  room,  was  wishing  that  Satan  —  he  pre- 
ferred Satan,  as  that  agency  gave  more  in- 
teresting results  —  would  find  employment  for  his  idle 
hands.  His  leg,  still  useless,  was  stretched  stiffly  out. 
The  doctor  had  told  him  that  very  soon  the  cut  would 
be  healed  and  'the  limb  as  good  as  ever,  but  the  "  very 
soon  "  of  middle  age  seemed  to  poor  Harry  "  very  long." 
His  sofa  was  across  the  one  window  of  the  lodging-house 
parlour,  and  from  where  he  lay  he  could  see  the  tide  of 
holiday-makers  flowing  towards  the  beach;  he  could  even 
hear  the  shouts  of  children  at  play  on  the  sands.  On 
reaching  the  lodging-house  he  had  been  settled  on  the  sofa. 
The  others  had  gone  on  an  exploring  expedition,  but 
Henry  must  rest. 

Turning  impatiently  from  the  window,  he  let  his  dis- 
contented glance  rove  about  the  room.  What  an  ugly 
room !  On  the  walls  was  a  shiny  paper  such  as  his  father 
had  put  over  the  bathroom  at  home,  but  the  bathroom 
paper  was  in  blue-and-white  squares  and  this  was  muddy 
brown.  The  bathroom,  too,  smelt  of  soap  and  hot  but 
fresh  air ;  it  gave  him  a  peculiarly  pleasant  sensation. 
This  place  had  quite  the  opposite  effect ;  it  spoke  to  him, 
not  of  a  clean  freshness,  but  of  food.  He  liked  the  smell 
of  roasting  and  frying  meats  —  he  thought  it,  indeed,  a 
most  delicious  scent,  far  above  roses ;  but  in  the  air  of 

this    room   lingered   the   smell   of  eaten  meats  t     In   the 

78 


The  Rolling  Stone 79 

centre  was  an  oblong  table  covered  with  dark,  shiny 
American  cloth.  The  legs  of  it  had  been  hacked  by  gen- 
erations of  young  seaside  visitors,  and  Harry  looked  at 
it  thoughtfully.  It  was  reminiscent  of  all  the  meals 
that  had  been  eaten  in  this  room.  It  spoke  of  stained 
knives,  of  plates  greasy  with  particles  of  skin  and  fat ; 
but  it  spoke  also  of  restless  feet  —  feet  that  twined  round 
the  chair-legs,  that  struck  in  their  exuberant  life  against 
the  solid  mahogany,  denting  and  scoring  it.  Harry 
sighed.  When  would  he  be  able  to  hack  a  table-leg  again? 

The  note  of  comfort  in  the  room  was  a  warm  red  carpet. 
It  rolled  from  his  sofa  to  the  mahogany  sideboard  at  the 
end  of  the  oblong  space,  the  wave  of  colour  being  broken 
by  faint  hints  of  pattern.  To  the  owner  it  was  evidently 
an  article  to  be  preserved  with  care,  for  narrow  widths 
of  oilcloth  had  been  laid  from  door  to  fireplace,  before 
the  sideboard  and  by  the  table.  The  little  shiny  paths 
caught  Harry's  eye ;  underneath  them  the  carpet  would  be 
a  yet  warmer  and  richer  red.  He  promised  himself  that 
as  soon  as  he  could  get  about,  he  would  prise  up  the  tacks 
and  have  a  look.  He  liked  the  carpet ;  red  was  his  fa- 
vourite colour,  and  it  was  thick,  thicker  than  the  carpet  in 
the  dining-room  at  home.  A  rummy  idea  to  put  oilcloth 
down  here  and  there!  His  mother  said  she  had  six  pairs 
of  feet  running  over  her  floors,  but  equalized  the  wear  and 
tear  by  changing  her  carpets  round.  He  felt  he  could  not 
approve  of  the  little  oilcloth  paths ;  it  showed  in  the  land- 
lady, Mrs.  Gudge,  a  fussy  mind,  and  fussy  landladies  were 
a  terror. 

Why  had  his  parents  taken  these  particular  rooms? 
He  had  heard  them  say  they  feared  Northpool  would  be 
full  and  that  they  would  have  a  difficulty  in  securing  lodg- 
ings. Left  in  the  station  waiting-room  while  they  went 
to  see  what  could  be  got,  he  had  felt  a  little  anxious. 


80  The  Rolling  Stone 

Supposing  all  the  lodgings  in  Northpool  were  taken,  what 
would  they  —  the  whole  family  of  them  —  do  ?  Would 
they  be  allowed  to  sleep  on  the  beach?  He  had  heard  of 
people  being  packed,  heads  and  tails  like  sardines,  on  the 
billiard-room  table  of  a  public-house;  and  he  thought  of 
himself  lying  among  his  brothers  and  sisters,  with  his 
mother  at  one  end,  his  father  at  the  other.  But  no,  his 
father  would  never  consent  to  take  refuge  in  a  public- 
house,  it  would  be  the  beach  for  them ;  and  he  wondered 
whether  they  would  know  when  the  tide  turned  or  whether 
it  would  come  coldly  lapping  round  them  in  the  night. 
As  a  bedroom  the  beach  did  not  seem  to  him  all  that 
could  be  desired,  and  while  his  mind  was  still  anxiously 
concentrated  on  the  problem  of  bed  or  no  bed  his  parents 
had  come  back.  They  had  been  wonderfully  fortunate ; 
the  first  house  at  which  they  had  called  had  had  rooms  to 
let.  They  had  been  jubilant  over  their  success,  and 
Harry,  too,  had  been  pleased.  No  beach,  no  chilly,  creep- 
ing water  for  him,  but  a  bed  under  a  roof.  As  he  lay  on 
the  sofa,  following  with  his  glance  the  pattern  on  the, 
little  oilcloth  paths,  he  felt  less  pleased.  There  was  some- 
thing about  the  room  .  .  . 

For  one  thing,  it  was  dark.  Mrs.  Gudge,  saying  the 
sun  would  take  the  colour  out  of  her  carpet,  had  insisted 
on  lowering  the  Venetian  blind.  One  could,  of  course, 
look  between  the  slats,  but  it  had  been  another  proof 
that  she  was  fussy.  He  hated  a  dark  room.  Why,  he 
could  hardly  get  the  sense  of  the  illuminated  texts  that 
hung  on  the  walls !  "  God  is  Love  "  was  over  the  fire- 
place, and  facing  it  "  Jesus  Wept  " ;  but  what  were  the 
words  in  black  and  gold,  above  the  sideboard?  He  could 
distinguish  the  capitals,  a  V,  an  M,  I,  R  and  L,  but  the 
smaller  letters  baffled  him.  As  soon  as  he  could  stand 
on  his  recalcitrant  leg  he  would  go  down  the  room  and, 


The  Rolling  Stone 81 

however  long  it  took,  would  extract  from  that  cardboard- 
oblong  its  meaning. 

For  the  present,  however,  to  decipher  it  was  beyond 
him,  and  presently  his  glance  dropped  to  the  piece  of 
mahogany  that  stretched  below.  The  surface  of  this  was 
covered  with  jars  and  tins  and  those  bulgy,  crackly,  light- 
brown  parcels  that  came  from  the  grocer. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  King  had  entered  into  possession  of 
her  temporary  home  she  had  begun  to  unpack.  Her  hus- 
band obtained  their  stores  from  the  Railway  Buying  As- 
sociation. Firkins  of  butter,  sides  of  bacon,  boxes  of 
eggs,  farm  products  of  all  sorts,  came  from  country  dis- 
tricts up  and  down  the  line,  and  from  these  stores  Mrs. 
King,  bearing  in  mind  the  high  prices  charged  by  seaside 
shops  during  the  season,  had  made  a  careful  selection. 
The  lid  of  the  big  case  having  been  prised  open,  she  had 
been  methodically  sorting  out  the  contents  when  Richard 
intervened. 

"  Now,  mother,  none  of  this  I  Come  and  smell  the  sea- 
weed." 

Mrs.  King,  never  able  to  withstand  the  blandishments 
of  her  first-born,  had  protested.  "  I  ought  to  finish  un- 
packing these  groceries." 

"  Just  put  out  what  we  want  for  tea.  There,  that 
tongue  and  the  strawberry  jam." 

"  Oh,  Richard,  do  mind  my  cap ! " 

Harry,  looking  on  from  the  sofa,  wished  he  could  be  of 
the  party.  He  remembered  the  joy  in  other  summers  of 
that  first  rush  to  the  sea.  "  Isn't  it  —  isn't  it  tea-time?  " 
he  asked  desperately,  as  one  after  another  the  children 
slipped  away. 

"  Not  for  another  hour,"  said  Richard,  as  he  drew  his 
mother's  not  altogether  unwilling  hand  under  his  arm. 

"  Don't  be  long,"  called  Harry  after  them,  but  in  the 


82  The  Rolling  Stone 

surge  of  chattering  voices  his  plea  was  lost.  The  sounds 
passed  away,  a  dry  dunt  of  sand-shoes  on  the  asphalt  — 
the  excited  trebles  of  his  little  sisters,  the  deeper  note  of 
his  father  (who  was  to  stay  over  the  week-end),  all  thin- 
ning gradually  to  a  vague  murmur  of  sound. 

Harry,  a  little  choky,  wondered  for  the  thousandth 
time  why  that  clumsy  idiot  of  a  James  had  not  noticed 
he  was  pushing  the  mattress  aside,  leaving  the  iron  edge 
of  the  bedstead  exposed?  But  it  was  no  good  worrying 
over  that  now ;  the  mischief  was  done.  He  —  innocent 
victim  of  a  brother's  carelessness  —  was  tied  to  this  hard 
rounded,  uncomfortable  sofa  while  the  others  .  .  .  He 
choked  again.  What  were  the  others  doing?  Looking 
for  things  in  the  pools?  Paddling?  He  thought  of  a 
queer  creature  he  had  found  the  previous  year.  The 
colour  of  the  weed,  it  had  been  moving  slowly  across  the 
sandy  bottom  of  a  pool.  It  had  had  brown  tubes  in  its 
back,  tubes  that  in  a  land  animal  would  have  been  con- 
cealed by  a  neat  and  decent  skin.  He  had  lain  for  a  long 
time  by  the  pool,  watching  it  and  wondering  about  the 
tubes.  Somebody  had  told  him  the  creature  was  a  sea- 
slug  and  that  it  ate  the  weed.  He  had  never  been  for- 
tunate enough  to  find  another,  but  perhaps  this  year 

He  remembered  there  was  to  be  no  paddling  for  him, 
no  dredging  up  of  sea-creatures  from  pools  left  by  the 
ebbing  tide. 

He  turned  on  the  hard  sofa  with  an  impatient  jerk. 
What  a  long  time  the  others  were  away !  They  were  hav- 
ing a  good  time  and  had  forgotten  the  poor  boy  at  home. 
They  would  not  think  of  returning  until  hunger  drove 
them.  He  looked  longingly  at  the  heap  of  groceries  on 
the  sideboard  —  six  little  packets  of  tea,  two  tins  of 
cocoa,  a  ham,  the  box  of  Primrose  soap,  and,  flanking 


The  Rolling  Stone 83 

them  in  a  friendly  group,  jars  of  jam  and  marmalade  and 
potted  meat.  What  had  his  mother  intended  them  to  have 
for  tea?  Richard  had  said  tongue,  but  Harry  was  in 
favour  of  potted  meat.  It  was  home-made  and  you  were 
given  a  good  lump  of  it,  enough  to  spread  over  several 
slices  of  bread.  Tongue,  being  a  delicacy,  was  cut  thin ; 
it  melted  in  your  mouth.  He  planned  a  tea  in  which 
tongue  was  dealt  with  as  generously  as  potted 
meat  —  a  tea  of  unlimited  thickly  buttered  toast,  of  piled- 
up  strawberry  jam.  He  shut  his  eyes  in  order  to  visualize 
more  clearly  the  rich  abundance  of  the  spread. 

A  sound  disturbed  him,  and  he  found  that  the  afternoon 
had  slipped  away.  The  shadows  had  thickened  in  the 
long  room,  and  it  was  so  dark  he  could  hardly  distinguish 
the  person  who  had  come  in  to  lay  the  cloth.  A  white 
cap  gave  substance  to  a  shadowy  head,  a  wide  lace  collar 
stretched  from  a  broad  but  rounded  back  to  a  full  bosom. 
The  landlady  had  come  in  person  to  attend  to  the  wants 
of  her  lodgers.  Harry,  his  eyes  growing  accustomed  to 
the  dusk,  was  able  to  distinguish  the  pale  disk  of  a  large 
shiny  face  as  the  woman,  opening  a  drawer  in  the  table, 
took  out  a  cloth.  She  turned  to  the  sideboard,  and  he 
wondered  if  she  were  going  to  tidy  away  the  stores  his 
mother  had  tumbled  hastily  out  of  the  big  case. 

In  the  hall  a  lamp  had  been  lighted,  and  its  beams 
fell  through  the  open  doorway  on  to  the  woman's  figure. 
Harry  saw  that  Mrs.  Gudge  was  examining  the  parcels, 
reading  the  labels  on  the  pots  and  tins,  weighing  in  her 
hand  the  knobbly  packages  on  which  was  only  a  pencil 
hieroglyph  to  mark  the  contents.  As  she  lifted  them  they 
gave  forth  a  little  crisp  sound,  suggestive  of  compression 
and  tense  paper.  How  often  had  Harry  watched  the 
grocer  make  up  packets  of  tea  or  rice  or  currants.  First 
came  the  plumping  on  the  counter  of  the  fuli  l?lue  qr 


84  The  Rolling  Stone 

brown  bag,  then  the  folding-in  of  the  top,  then  from  the 
brown  box  the  swift  running  of  the  new  string,  and,  after 
the  tying,  the  smart  jerk  and  the  parcel  handed  over  to 
you.  But  what  was  Mrs.  Gudge  doing  with  his  mother's 
parcels  ? 

"  Are  you  going  to  lay  supper  ?  "  he  asked,  and  the 
stout  figure  spun  round. 

"  You  mustn't  startle  me  like  that.  I've  • —  I've  a 
heart." 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  something." 

"  These  things  ought  to  have  been  put  away." 

Harry  could  not  understand  why  she  should  speak  as 
if  the  litter  of  groceries  was  an  annoyance.  "  They  don't 
matter  there." 

"  I  like  a  place  kept  tidy." 

"  My  mother  will  put  them  away  when  she  comes  back." 

"  I  hope  she  will.  Anyway,  I  can't  be  running  after 
people  all  day  long.  I've  something  else  to  do." 

"  I  suppose  you've  other  lodgers?  " 

"What's  that  to  do  with  you?" 

Harry  thought  her  a  disagreeable  person,  but  then 
grown-ups  so  frequently  kept  their  civilities  for  each  other. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  relieve  his  boredom  by  further 
chat,  but  watched  her  setting  out  the  knives  and  forks,  the 
cups  and  saucers.  Everything  was  laid  a  little  obliquely, 
even  the  cloth  hung  on  a  gradual  slant.  "  So  like  a 
woman,"  he  thought,  "  no  eye." 

The  return  wave  of  sand-shoes  was  beginning  to  flow, 
and  Mrs.  Gudge  lighted  a  lamp  in  readiness.  Harry,  re- 
membering his  difficulty  with  the  text,  studied  the  long 
black  letters  afresh.  "  V-ven-vengeance !  "  Ah  yes,  he 
had  it :  "  Vengeance  is  Mine,  I  will  Repay,  saith  the 
Lord." 

It  was  a  text  any  boy  could  understand,  for  to  repay 


The  Rolling  Stone 85 

was  wholly  enjoyable.  As  far  as  he  could,  Harry  repaid 
all  blows,  kicks,  harsh  words  and  other  injuries  bestowed 
on  him,  repaid  them  with  interest,  made  a  point  of  giving 
good  measure,  of  bearing  them  in  mind  until  the  debt  was 
paid.  He  understood  that  the  Lord,  too,  found  it  enjoy- 
able to  lie  in  wait  for  the  unwary,  to  bestow,  when  oppor- 
tunity served,  the  kick  or  buffet  that  was  owing.  Harry 
had  thought  that  God,  an  old  gentleman  on  a  big  blue 
throne,  an  old  gentleman  surrounded  by  feathered  and 
squawking  angels,  had  a  pretty  dull  time  of  it,  but  this 
insistence  on  vengeance  led  the  boy  to  revise  his  judgment. 
God  avenged  not  only  His  own  wrongs  but  those  of  other 
people.  No  doubt  there  were  flabby  creatures  who  would 
be  content  with  this.  He,  Harry,  would  do  his  own  re- 
paying, but  he  could  understand  that  those  who  could  not 
stand  up  for  themselves  might  be  glad  of  help ;  could  un- 
derstand, too,  what  a  good  time  God,  for  ever  hunting, 
ambushing,  waylaying  the  wrong-doer,  must  have! 

II 

A  bustle  in  the  tiled  hall  apprised  him  of  the  family's 
return,  and  his  father  came  in  carrying  Mab. 

"  I  should  put  the  child  to  bed ;  she  doesn't  seem  to  me 
a  bit  well." 

"  She  is  only  tired  after  the  journey,"  said  Mrs.  King. 

"  She's  got  a  very  heavy  cold.  Look  how  her  eyes 
are  running." 

"  Well,  you  take  her  upstairs.  I've  got  the  tea  to 
see  to." 

Mr.  King,  still  carrying  little  Mab,  went  out  of  the 
room,  and  his  wife,  turning  to  the  sideboard,  began  to 
lay  the  groceries  on  the  shelves  of  a  cupboard. 

"  Dear  me,  I  thought  there  were  six  packets  of  tea," 


86  The  Rolling  Stone 

she  said  in  a  puzzled  tone.  "  Richard,  didn't  I  put  out 
six  packets?  " 

"  I  don't  remember,  mother." 

"  There  were  six,"  said  Harry  suddenly. 

"  There  are  only  five  now."  At  that  moment  Mrs. 
Gudge  came  in  carrying  a  tray.  "  Do  you  know  if  any 
of  the  things  I  left  on  the  sideboard  have  been  touched?  " 

Mrs.  Gudge  directed  an  oblique  glance  down  the  room. 

"  Your  son's  been  'ere  all  the  time." 

"Well?" 

"  I  can't  say  what  he's  been  up  to." 

"  He  can't  move  off  the  sofa." 

"  Oh,  can't  'e?     You  never  know  what  boys  can  do." 

"  Did  you  touch  the  tea,  Henry?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  I  can't  bother  about  it  now,  but  I  certainly 
thought  there  were  six  packets." 

"  Anyway,"  reiterated  Mrs.  Gudge  with  heavy  triumph, 
"  your  boy  was  'ere  all  the  time." 

Ill 

Little  Mab's  indisposition  was  due  neither  to  the  jour- 
ney nor  a  cold,  and  a  few  days  later  Mrs.  King  wrote  to 
her  husband  to  say  the  child  had  developed  measles.  "  I 
shall  be  glad  to  see  you  at  the  week-end,  for  the  landlady 
is  disagreeable  about  it.  She  says  it  has  prevented  her 
taking  another  party  and  that  we  ought  to  pay  for  the 
empty  rooms.  She  is  bone-idle  and  a  regular  harpy." 

When  Mr.  King  reached  Prospect  Villa  he  found  the 
front  door  open  and  the  sitting-room  empy.  A  murmur 
of  voices  in  the  upper  part  of  the  house  led  him  to  the 
stairs,  and,  following  the  sound,  he  was  presently  at  the 
door  of  his  little  daughter's  bedroom. 


The  Rolling  Stone  87 

"Can  I  come  in?" 

"  Oh,  Henry,  is  it  really  you  ?  "  The  relief  in  his  wife's 
voice  was  so  intense  he  had  a  wondering  fear.  What  had 
been  the  matter?  Measles  was  only  a  trifling  ailment. 
With  the  exception  of  Mab,  the  family  had  had  it,  and  it 
had  been  see-saw,  down  one  day  and  up  the  next,  but  no 
one  ill,  not  really  ill.  In  Mrs.  King's  voice,  however,  was 
a  note  suggestive  of  strain,  of  weariness,  and  his  heart- 
beats quickened. 

But  in  the  sunny  bedroom  was  nothing  to  justify  his 
fatherly  apprehensions.  Little  Mab  was  already  sitting 
up,  and  before  her,  on  the  pleasant  land  of  counterpane, 
was  a  Noah's  Ark  with  sundry  unpainted  additions  made 
by  Harry.  Mr.  King's  glance  turned  from  the  conva- 
lescent child  to  its  mother.  The  colours  of  his  comely 
wife  were  faded ;  she  looked  worn. 

"What  is  it,  my  dear?" 

"  Oh,  Henry !  "  Her  eyes  swam,  and  for  once  in  her 
capable  maturity  she  clung  to  him.  "  That  woman ! 
We've  had  such  a  time." 

Bit  by  bit  he  gathered  that  Mrs.  Gudge  had  revealed 
herself,  as  not  only  grasping,  but  unkind.  She  had  de- 
clined to  come  into  their  rooms,  which  she  said  were  "  in- 
fected," and  though  she  cooked  the  food,  she  would  not 
serve  it.  The  dishes  were  placed  on  a  slab  outside  the 
kitchen  door  and  the  King  family  were  left  to  do  as  best 
they  could. 

"  Did  you  tell  the  doctor?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Henry." 

"  I  shall,  then.     Has  he  been  today?  " 

"  He  generally  comes  about  now."  She  went  to  the 
window.  "  That's  his  dogcart  opposite  No.  6.  He  won't 
be  long." 

Events  favoured  them,  for  Mr.  King,  on  entering,  had 


88  The  Rolling  Stone 

closed  the  front  door,  and  the  doctor  had  to  ring  for 
admittance;  he  had  to  ring  more  than  once. 

"  I  thought  you  was  one  of  my  lodgers,"  Mrs.  Gudge 
said. 

"  Well,  but  you  don't  keep  them  waiting,  do  you  ?  " 
retorted  Dr.  Keenan. 

"  Oh,  them !  "  she  said,  and  tossed  her  head. 

The  doctor  glanced  at  her  keenly.  "  Same  trouble, 
Mrs.  Gudge?" 

She  did  not  meet  his  eye.    "That?    It  wasn't  my  fault." 

"  Then  you  should  have  taken  it  into  court." 

"  Can't  afford  no  lawyers'  bills." 

"  No  —  well."  He  went  on  up  the  stairs  to  where 
Mr.  King  was  waiting  for  him. 

"  She  agreed  to  do  the  work,  but  for  a  week  now  she 
has  not  been  inside  our  rooms,  and,  having  our  little 
girl  ill,  my  wife  finds  it  more  than  she  can  manage." 

"Ah,"  said  Dr.  Keenan.  "Yes  —  I'll  speak  to  Mrs. 
Gudge.  I  think  it  will  be  all  right  now;  but  if  not,  you 
must  let  me  know." 

"  I  didn't  like  to  trouble  you." 

"A  doctor's  would  be  an  easy  job  if  he  had  only  to 
physic  the  ills  of  the  flesh." 

"  But  I  thought  .  .  ." 

"  Ah,  so  did  I  till  I  left  the  hospital." 

He  ran  down  the  stairs  calling,  "  Mrs.  Gudge !  Mrs. 
Gudge ! "  and  the  Kings  could  hear  her  steps  on  the 
oilcloth  of  the  kitchen,  her  slow,  dragging  steps  as  she 
came  to  the  door. 

"  Where's  that  prescription,"  he  began.  Then  he  was 
drawn  in  and  the  door  shut. 

"Prescription!  What  prescription?  "  said  Mrs.  King. 
"The  woman  isn't  ill?" 


The  Rolling  Stone 89 

Mr.  King  had  turned  on  the  wee  convalescent.  "  Did 
Henry  make  these  cows  and  sheep?  Good  old  Henry! 
By  the  by,"  he  glanced  up,  "  how  is  he?  " 

"  Dr.  Keenan  took  the  plaster  off  yesterday." 

"Leg  all  right?" 

"  Gone  to  skin  and  bone." 

"  Ah,  but  Henry'll  see  to  that." 

A  rap  sounded  on  the  door.  "  Come  in,"  said  Mrs. 
King,  and  their  landlady  entered,  carrying  a  jug  of  hot 
water.  She  did  not  look  at  them  but  went  to  the  wash- 
stand  and,  puting  it  in  the  basin,  covered  it  with  a  towel. 

"  Dr.  Keenan  told  me  to  bring  you  some,  and  what 
time  would  you  be  wanting  supper  tonight?  " 

"  The  usual  time ! "  Mrs.  King  was  recovering  from 
her  surprise.  "  I  suppose  you  know  the  sitting-room 
hasn't  been  swept  out  for  a  week?  " 

"  I'll  do  it  this  afternoon." 

"  The  beds  haven't  been  made  or  the  slops  emptied." 

The  woman  did  not  answer,  but  they  heard  her  go  into 
the  adjoining  bedrooms,  and,  from  the  sounds,  judged 
that  she  was  setting  to  work  with  broom  and  duster. 

"She  will  be  all  right  now,"  said  Mr.  King.  "Dr. 
Keenan  made  her  realize  she  wasn't  doing  her  duty  by  us. 
You  can  see  she  means  well." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  returned  his  wife. 

"  You  always  think  the  worst  of  people." 

They  sat  down  to  supper  that  night  in  a  comparatively 
clean  room.  "  I'll  have  in  the  mutton,  Mrs.  Gudge." 

"The  mutton?" 

"  What  was  left  of  the  shoulder." 

"  I've  seen  nothing  but  the  bone." 

"  There  was  more  than  enough  on  it  for  Mr.  King's 
supper.  Please  bring  it  in." 


90  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Oh,  that  bone?     I  threw  it  in  the  dustbin." 

As  she  went  out  of  the  room  Mrs.  King  turned  to  her 
husband.  "  There,  Henry !  " 

The  younger  Henry  ventured  a  question.  "  Does  she 
take  our  things,  mother?  " 

"  Don't  interrupt  me  when  I'm  talking  to  your  father." 

"  No,  mother  —  but  does  she?  " 

"  You  can't  leave  a  thing  about,"  said  Mrs.  King,  ignor- 
ing him.  "  That  cocoa-tin  on  the  mantelpiece !  I  filled 
it  this  morning.  I  was  going  to  make  you  a  cup  tonight, 
but  when  I  looked  just  now  there  wasn't  half  a  spoonful 
left.  She's  got  a  name,  Henry,  and  that's  why  her  rooms 
were  empty  and  why  she  didn't  haggle  about  the  price  of 
them  and  why  there  are  no  other  lodgers." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  her  about  the  cocoa?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,  and  she  said  it  was  mice.     Mice !  " 

Harry  had  watched  this  particular  mouse  at  its  nib- 
bling, and  mice  suggested  to  his  mind  the  harmless,  neces- 
sary cat,  but  a  cat  big  enough  to  cope  with  such  a  mouse 
—  a  big  stripy  cat,  black  on  yellow.  "  It's  a  pity  this 
isn't  India,"  he  said. 

"  It  isn't  as  if  we  gave  any  extra  trouble  or  wanted  a 
lot  of  waiting  on.  I  believe  the  woman  drinks." 

"  Cocoa?  "  asked  Mr.  King  with  a  smile. 

"  If  she  takes  our  things,"  said  Harry  thoughtfully  and 
with  an  eye  to  the  text  over  the  sideboard,  "  I  suppose  the 
Lord  will  repay  ?  " 

With  Mrs.  King  indignation  had  the  upper  hand.  "  If 
only  I  could  be  sure  He  would ! " 

Her  son  blinked  at  her,  his  eyes  bright  in  an  unsmiling 
face.  In  his  pocket  was  a  knife  that  he  had  picked  up 
on  the  beach,  a  knife  with  a  dull  edge.  He  decided  to 
grind  in  into  keenness.  A  knife  was  a  good  standby,  you 
never  knew  when  it  might  be  useful.  He  nudged  his 


The  Rolling  Stone 91 

mother.     "  One     more     slice    of    bread     and    treacle? " 
"  No,  really,  Henry,  you've  had  enough." 
"  Just  one  more." 

"  That  four-pound  tin  was  only  opened  on  Friday." 
A  voice  from  the  other  end  of  the  table.     "  Let  the  boy 
have  his  fill.     Hungry  times  down  here." 
"  He'll  eat  us  out  of  house  and  home." 
"  I  want  them  to  have  good  food  and  plenty  of  it." 
Mr.  King  looked  with  a  feeling  of  deep  paternal  satis- 
faction at  the  vital  faces,  the  strongly  built  bodies,  of  his 
progeny.     They  justified  him.     Richard's  Oxford  schol- 
arship had  been  made  possible  by  his  father  taking  every 
well-paid  job  that  offered.     Mr.  King  had  asked  in  return 
that  his  child,  his  children,  should  climb  the  hill  of  worldly 
success.     He  smiled  at  them  as  he  ate,  happy  to  think  of 
these  small,  strong  feet  on  the  upward  path,  happy  in  his 
long  dream  of  the  pinnacle  which  they  might  eventually 
reach. 

He  ate  dreamily,  and  behind  each  face  gathered  at  the 
table  were  the  individual  thoughts  of  these  beings  who  had 
come  into  existence  because  Henry  King,  walking  one 
spring  evening  by  the  Manor  Farm,  had  helped  to  disen- 
tangle a  skirt  caught  by  a  briar !  The  same  blood  ran 
through  all  these  pumping  hearts,  yet  the  thoughts  of  each 
were  unknown  to  the  others.  Even  the  mother,  of  whose 
flesh  they  had  been  a  part,  knew  nothing  of  what  went 
on  in  the  different  minds,  of  what  was  going  on  under  the 
dark  thatch  of  the  child  who  was  nudging  her  for  "  bread 
and  treacle  —  just  one  more  slice." 

IV 

Only  lately  released  from  sofa  bondage,  Harry's  little 
brain  was  full  of  plans.  His  leg,  contrasting  woefully 


92  The  Rolling  Stone 

with  its  fellow,  was  his  chief  concern.  Exercises  and  a 
primitive  rubbing  of  the  muscles  occupied  part  of  his  valu- 
able time,  but  he  was  able  to  spare  some  —  whole  after- 
noons, in  fact  —  for  fishing  in  the  pools,  building  sand- 
works  on  the  edge  of  the  tide,  and  other  seaside  pursuits. 
Through  these  satisfactory  occupations  ran,  however,  a 
thread  of  thought.  He  could  not  approve  of  the  way  in 
which  Mrs.  Gudge  was  treating  his  family.  She  took  his 
mother's  things ;  he  knew  she  did.  Also  she  was  dis- 
agreeable. She  made  a  fuss  about  the  sand  they  brought 
into  the  house,  about  the  noise,  about  the  hot  water. 
His  mind  returned  from  the  contemplation  of  her  many 
unpleasant  ways  to  the  one  that  seemed  to  him  most 
reprehensible.  She  took  his  mother's  things ! 

That  was  stealing,  and  she  could  be  sent  to  prison  for 
it;  but,  instead,  his  mother  would  only  grumble.  She 
would  not  do  anything.  He  saw  Mrs.  Gudge,  unamiable 
landlady,  dishonest  woman,  getting  off  scot-free;  getting 
off,  too,  with  all  the  things  she  had  taken.  She  would 
not,  of  course,  go  to  heaven,  but  heaven  was  a  long  way 
off  and  Harry  impatient.  He  wanted  her  to  suffer  for 
her  sins,  he  wanted  her  to  suffer  now. 

"  Coming  out,  Bear?  "  asked  Richard  the  last  afternoon 
of  their  stay  in  Northpool.  The  pretty  girl  who  had 
been  staying  next  door  was  gone  home  and  skies  were 
overcast. 

"  No."  Harry  held  in  the  palm  of  his  hand  the  knife 
he  had  found ;  it  had  been  ground  to  a  fine  edge. 

"  Well,  then,  don't !     Nobody  wants  you." 

As  he  took  himself  and  his  discontent  out  of  the  room 
Mrs.  King  turned  to  her  youngest  son.  "  Don't  you 
want  to  go  out  on  your  last  afternoon?" 

"  I'm  sleepy,"  lied  Harry,  and  made  for  the  horsehair 
sofa.  "  I'll  go  presently." 


The  Rolling  Stone 


Mrs.  King  had  intended  to  make  use  of  it  herself;  but 
a  bed,  she  thought,  would  do  just  as  well  —  be,  in  fact, 
more  comfortable.  As  she  walked  upstairs  she  reflected 
on  Harry's  sleepiness  and  hoped  he  wasn't  sickening  for  a 
disease.  It  was  unlike  him  to  lie  down  in  the  middle  of 
the  day. 

Harry,  at  his  short  length,  waited  until  the  family  had 
gone  its  several  ways.  His  need  was  not  for  sleep  but 
solitude,  and  as  soon  as  he  heard  the  bed  creak  under  his 
mother's  weight  in  the  room  over  his  head  he  went  to  the 
door.  In  all  the  house  was  no  sound  but  Mrs.  Gudge's 
voice  addressing  a  neighbour  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wall.  It  filtered  in  by  way  of  the  back  kitchen,  and  for 
a  moment  Harry,  a  queer  smile  on  his  lips,  listened. 

"  I  says  to  'er,  *  You've  'ad  'em  in,  every  one  of  'em,' 
and  so  she  'ad.  Near  ?  My  word,  she  is  that ;  but  what 
can  you  expect?  —  those  sort  of  people  —  in  a  very  small 
way  .  .  ." 

An  impulse  to  run  out  and  show  Mrs.  Qudge  up,  accuse 
her  of  stealing,  throw  her  sins  in  her  wicked  face,  shook 
the  boy.  But  no,  he  could  do  better  than  that.  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  text  over  the  sideboard.  "  Ven- 
geance is  Mine."  That  was  it.  Vengeance  should  be  his, 
and  not  at  the  end  of  life  but  now. 

The  oilcloth  path,  with  smooth  gleam,  ran  from  door 
to  fender.  Loosening  the  ends,  Harry  rolled  it  back  and 
surveyed  the  warmer  rose  of  that  space  of  carpet  which 
had  been  hidden.  What  a  rich  colour!  How  lovely! 
He  had  never  seen  a  carpet  that  he  liked  so  much.  He 
took  out  the  knife  he  had  so  assiduously  sharpened  and, 
kneeling  down,  let  the  edge  shear  through  a  strand,  a 
dark  strand  woven  into  the  pattern.  It  parted,  but  the 
fraying  edge  of  the  wool  covered  the  tiny  slit.  Harry's 
appetite  for  cutting  grew.  The  woven  threads  were  taut 


94 The  Rolling  Stone 

under  his  knife;  he  drew  the  keen  blade  across  them  and 
they  yielded.  He  felt  them  yield,  and  the  little  give 
thrilled  him.  Setting  to  work  in  earnest,  he  cut  a  few 
strands  here,  a  few  strands  there,  until  in  every  foot  of 
the  carpet  was  a  tiny,  unnoticeable  slit. 

Mrs.  Gudge  was  a  bad  woman.  She  should  not  steal 
his  mother's  tea.  She  should  pay  —  that  was  it  —  pay 
for  what  she  had  taken.  One  more  cut  between  the  border 
and  the  carpet,  another  along  the  dark  line  of  pattern, 
a  bigger  one  where  the  concealing  oilcloth  would  lie. 
When  the  time  came  for  carpets  to  be  taken  up  and  beaten 
this  one  would  fall  to  pieces.  Ah,  but  just  one  more  cut. 
She  would  never  be  able  to  relay  it.  "  Mice !  "  she  had 
said,  and  mice  nibbled  things,  ruined  them.  A  half-cut 
strand  here,  another  there,  and  no  sign,  no  sign  at  all 
that  the  mice  had  been  busy. 

Harry,  his  pixy  soul  aglow  with  satisfaction,  trod  the 
oilcloth  into  place  and  pressed  home  the  tacks.  The 
smell  of  decaying  weed,  the  murmur  of  the  beach,  was 
drawing  him.  On  his  way  out,  however,  he  lingered  for 
a  moment  before  the  black-and-gold  text.  God  had  be- 
come real  to  him,  for  God  was  some  one  who  felt  as  he 
did  in  the  important  matter  of  enemies  and  vengeance. 
He  understood  about  God  now,  this  God  Who  punished 
sinners,  who  repaid. 

And  what  fun  it  was  too.  He  had  enjoyed  ruining  that 
carpet.  "  Vengeance  is  Mine,  I  will  Repay,  saith  the 
Lord." 

Yes,  no  doubt,  but  the  Lord  could  not  expect  to  have 
all  the  fun. 


Chapter  VII 


IN  the  warm,  bright  kitchen  Mrs.  King,  subconsciously 
aware  that  autumn  winds  were  tearing  at  the  leaves 
with  a  wild  lack  of  decorum,  was  making  an  apple- 
pie.     Before  her,  on  the  board,  was  a  lump  of  pastry,  to 
be  turned  later  into  puffs  and  turnovers;  and  while  she 
rolled  the  piecrust,  she  was  considering  whether  she  should 
get  out  a  pot  of  raspberry  jam  or  use  what  was  left  of 
the  plum. 

"Mrs.  King — madam  —  are  you  there?" 

A  voice  from  the  back  door,  a  voice  of  pleasant  mascu- 
line cadence,  the  mellowness  of  summer  yet  the  roughness, 
that  roughness  of  wind,  of  change,  that  had  made  her 
restless.  She  turned  a  brightening  face  towards  the 
scullery. 

"That  you,  Mr.  Chew?  Come  in,  please.  I'm  making 
pastry  and  can't  leave  it."  She  worked  more  quickly, 
fitting  the  crust  over  the  cored  apple-quarters,  running  a 
knife  round  the  edges.  She  wanted  the  job  finished, 
wanted  to  be  free  for  the  delights  a  visit  from  Chew,  the 
tallyman,  promised. 

A  tall  man,  stooping  his  head  under  the  lintel,  smiled 
at  her  across  the  bare  scrubbed  space.  In  this  house  he 
was  sure  of  a  welcome  —  at  least  from  the  mistress. 

"  Set  down  your  pack,  won't  you?  " 

Although  the  case  was  light,  being  of  wickerwork  cov- 
ered with  dark  brown  American  cloth,  the  goods  were 
heavy,  and  Chew  felt  glad  to  lift  the  strap  from  his  chest. 
He  had  journeyed  far  that  day,  and  found  it  good  to  come 

95 


96  The  Rolling  Stone 

at  evening  into  this  homely  place.  With  a  red  handker- 
chief, silk,  for  the  tallyman  had  his  niceties,  he  wiped  his 
face;  and  Mrs.  King's  curious  glance  noted  the  change 
in  the  skin  where  the  cap,  pressing  down  his  ruffle  of 
short  curls,  had  been  pulled  forward.  A  bonnie  colour, 
she  thought,  warm,  with  faint  yellows  and  reds  under 
the  cream,  very  much  her  own  colour  as  a  girl.  What 
a  world  of  difference  there  was  between  these  tints  and 
the  sallow  reds  in  a  blue-white  skin  of  her  husband  —  ay, 
and  of  her  children.  Not  a  single  one  of  her  babies  had 
been  apple-skinned  and  fair.  She  had  longed  for  a  baby 
like  the  babies  of  her  own  family,  and  one  after  another 
dusky  youngsters,  with  copper  or  black  hair  and  milky 
skins,  had  been  born  to  her. 

"  You'll  let  me  make  you  a  cup  of  tea  ?  " 
Outside,  the  brisk  air  had  a  nip  in  it,  whipping  the 
blood.  "  You're  very  kind,  and  I'll  be  glad  of  the  tea 
if  you'll  have  a  cup  with  me."  It  would  be  pleasant  to 
stretch  his  long  legs  before  the  fire,  sitting  in  another 
man's  chair,  drinking  out  of  another  man's  cup,  making 
believe  that  both  were  his.  "  I  was  thinking  of  you  last 
week,  when  I  was  in  Nottingham."  He  would  not  let 
his  appreciation  of  the  buxom  woman  interfere  with 
business.  Throwing  back  the  lid  of  his  pack,  he  routed 
among  the  contents,  seeking  a  certain  package.  "  This 
is  a  new  design.  I  got  it  cheap,  and  I've  been  keeping  it 
for  you."  In  the  corner  of  the  roomy  kitchen  was  a 
horsehair  sofa  with  curly  ends.  Tallyman,  unfolding 
the  parcel  —  curtains  of  machine-made  cotton  lace  — 
spread  them  widely  over  the  black  cushions.  Well  he 
knew  that  Mrs.  King's  weakness  was  curtains  —  to  have 
cleaner,  crisper  curtains  than  her  neighbours,  than  any 
woman  in  the  road.  He  pandered  to  this  weakness,  but 
not  only  because  he  wanted  to  sell  the  contents  of  his 


The  Rolling  Stone 97 

pack.  "  Directly  my  eye  fell  on  it  I  seemed  to  see  it 
hanging  in  one  of  your  windows." 

"  Why  did  you  get  it  cheap  ?  "  She  decided  to  use 
what  remained  of  the  plum  jam  ;  less  trouble.  She  wanted 
to  finish  with  the  pastry,  to  be  able  to  examine  the  con- 
tents of  the  pack  —  the  dress  goods,  the  household  linens, 
all  Tallyman  had  gathered  from  the  factories  up  and 
down  the  country.  She  knew  that  he  would  let  her  have 
her  will  of  the  basket,  that  he  would  sit  toasting  his  toes 
and  watching  her  with  his  lazy,  almost  proprietorial  smile. 
On  the  fire  a  kettle  was  singing;  a  moment  more  and  it 
would  boil.  She  would  make  the  tea,  and  then  — 

He  showed  an  inequality  in  the  pattern.  "  The  shuttle 
missed  kissing,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  King  had  not  known  that  she  required  a  new  pair 
of  Nottingham  lace  curtains.  "  I  don't  think,"  she  said 
disparagingly,  "  I  should  care  to  have  them  if  they  are 
damaged." 

He  draped  the  border  with  cunning  fingers.  "  It  would 
never  show  and  they  are  of  good  quality,  worth  a  lot 
more  than  I  shall  ask  you  for  them."  She  had  seen  the 
effect  at  a  distance,  but  he  brought  them  across  to  her 
to  show  the  texture.  "  No  dress  in  this  and  good  stout 
stuff.  They'll  wash  and  wash." 

The  curtains  were  a  bargain,  handsomer  than  those 
Mrs.  Jackets  had  put  up  last  spring-cleaning  and  to  be 
obtained  at  less  cost.  Mrs.  King  allowed  her  lips  to  relax, 
and  Autolycus,  tossing  the  curtains  on  to  the 
ancient  couch,  put  business  out  of  his  mind.  The  pie 
was  almost  ready  in  the  oven,  and  Mrs.  King's  busy 
fingers  were  folding  cored  apple  into  paste,  making  a 
big  turnover.  The  man,  watching  her,  understood  that  it 
was  for  him  —  that,  crisp  and  brown,  it  would  be  rolled 
into  a  bit  of  clean  linen  and  slipped  into  his  pocket. 


98  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Eh,"  he  said,  "  you  are  good  to  me.  I  tramp  the 
country  but  my  round  ends  at  your  door." 

She  gave  a  final  twist  to  the  turnover.  "  I  wonder, 
Mr.  Chew,  that  you've  never  settled  down." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  wonder." 

"  Well,  but  you  could  have  been  a  successful  man,  with 
a  shop  of  your  own,  a  big  shop ;  you  could  have  made 
money." 

"  With  a  wife  like  you  in  the  back  premises  ?  I'd  have 
liked  that  fine  —  the  wife,  I  mean." 

"  Oh,  nonsense,  Mr.  Chew." 

"  Strewth,  I  would;  but  not  the  shop." 

"  It  would  have  been  respectable." 

"  It  would  that." 

"  Now,  when  you're  old  — " 

"  Eh?     I'll  never  be  old;  I'll  die  before  that." 

"In  a  ditch?" 

"  Why  not  ?  Come  to  die,  one  place  is  as  good  as 
another." 

The  turnover  was  in  the  oven  and  she  had  laid  tea  on 
a  corner  of  the  kitchen-table.  His  eyes  had  a  dancing 
light  in  them,  they  spoke  to  her  over  the  domestic  cup 
of  other  things  than  curtains. 

He  understood,  indeed,  as  did  no  one  else  that  in  her, 
smothered  by  her  fear  of  the  common  tongue,  was  a 
longing  for  something  out  of  the  ordinary.  If  life  had 
been  spiced  with  uncertainty  she  would  have  accepted, 
as  it  came,  failure  or  success.  She  would  have  been 
undaunted,  patient,  hardworking  —  a  pal,  thought 
Chew. 

"  Die  in  a  ditch?  "  she  cried,  and  he  saw  that  she  was 
passionately  anxious  to  prove  that  what  she  had  missed 
would  not  have  been  worth  while.  "  No,  it's  better  to 
have  home  and  children,  to  live  like  a  Christian,  and,  in 


The  Rolling  Stone  99 

the  end,  lie  down  with  your  own  people  and  wait  for  the 
Resurrection." 

"  You  don't  think  it,"  he  answered  softly,  and  took  no 
notice  of  her  instantly  repeated  asseveration.  For  once 
he  would  not  spare  her.  She  might  deny  the  truth  but 
she  should  know.  In  homely  phrase  he  told  of  the  tinkler 
life,  shine  and  shade,  calling  winds  and  a  refuge  from  the 
cold.  What  more  could  any  one  want  than  sky  for  roof 
and  turf  for  carpet,  the  clean  earth,  the  fresh  water,  and 
the  jog,  jog,  jogging  along  the  road? 

"  It  —  it  isn't  respectable,"  she  told  him  faintly  at 
the  end. 

Chew  was  a  walking  newspaper,  a  sort  of  weekly  instal- 
ment of  all  the  human  dramas  being  played  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, but  of  these  things  he  did  not  speak  to  Mrs. 
King. 

"  And,"  she  said,  "  there  isn't  only  this  world." 

He  smiled  at  her.  "  Ah  —  you  don't  think  a  chap  like 
me  has  any  chance?  " 

Not  any  chance  for  the  man  who,  though  he  scoffed  at 
a  rooted  vegetable  existence,  was  the  companion  she 
would  have  chosen  in  that  place  where,  fortunately,  was 
no  marrying  or  giving  in  marriage? 

"  I  wish,"  she  said  uncomfortably,  "  that  you  were  go- 
ing to  be  buried  in  our  graveyard.  I  should  be 
sorry  — " 

His  thought  jumped  to  hers.  "  Oh,  I'll  be  there,"  he 
said. 

II 

When  Harry,  greased  to  the  eyes,  came  in  that  evening 
he  found  his  mother  standing  idly  in  the  bow  of  the 
kitchen-window.  On  the  table  was  a  freshly  baked  pie 
and  some  turnovers. 


100 The  Rolling  Stone 

"Where's  father?" 

Mrs.  King,  recalled  from  dreams  to  the  requirements 
of  family  life,  went  to  the  dresser.  Harry  home  and  the 
dining-room  tea  not  laid?  She  took  up  a  tray. 

"  Your  father  has  gone  to  give  Mrs.  Allen  a  pass  for 
one  of  her  boys.  I  expect  she  will  keep  him  to  supper. 
Why?  " 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  but  he  had  aroused  his  moth- 
er's suspicions. 

"Pay-day?     You  can  give  me  the  money." 

He  began  to  move  away.  "  I  always  think  father  likes 
me  to  settle  up  with  him." 

"  Hand  it  over." 

Reluctantly  the  boy  produced  two  half-crowns  and 
pushed  them  across  the  table.  His  mother  gave  him 
back  threepence. 

"  Couldn't  you  make  it  a  little  more?  Threepence  a 
week  is  awful  little." 

But  she  had  been  extravagant  in  the  matter  of  curtains. 
"  It's  as  much  as  any  other  boy  gets.  I  can't  think  what 
you  want  with  so  much  money.  What  do  you  do  with 
it?  " 

Harry  envisaged  and  dismissed  the  idea  that  he  should 
take  her  into  his  confidence.  He  wanted  the  money  for 
an  important  plan  he  hoped  to  put  into  execution  that 
evening  —  no  less  than  the  wheedling  of  old  Bill  Mountain, 
the  pugilist,  into  giving  him  a  boxing-lesson. 

"  Oh,  I  dunno." 

"  Money  is  the  root  of  all  evil,"  pursued  Mrs.  King, 
wondering  how  she  was  to  explain  those  unnecessary 
curtains.  "  If  you  hadn't  any  you  wouldn't  be  for  ever 
getting  into  mischief."  Yet  if  they  had  been  better  off 
and  she  had  a  bigger  allowance  she  would  have  been  able 
to  buy  as  many  curtains  as  she  fancied. 


The  Rolling  Stone  101 

Harry  also  thought  it  was  the  lack,  not  the  possession, 
of  money  that  led  him  into  temptation.  How  often  had 
it  not  driven  him  to  extract  pennies  with  a  knife  from 
his  sisters'  money-boxes?  He  could  even  remember  an 
occasion  when,  having  longed  for  uncounted  days  after 
a  certain  brightly  coloured  top,  he  had  helped  himself 
to  the  price  from  his  mother's  purse. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  ?  "  she  had  asked  as  he  pur- 
sued it  over  the  floor. 

"  Reuben  Jackets  gave  it  to  me." 

But  Mrs.  King  had  seen  it  in  a  shop-window.  "  Don't 
tell  me ! "  She  had  taken  out  her  purse  and  counted 
the  contents.  "  You  bought  that  top !  Where  did  you 
get  the  money?  "  She  had  been  ninepence  short,  and 
that  had  been  the  price  of  the  toy.  Suddenly  she  had 
swung  round.  "  You  stole  it,"  she  had  cried,  and  had 
given  her  son  a  stinging  slap  across  the  face. 

The  top  would  have  been  cheap  at  the  price,  but,  to 
Harry's  surprise  and  wrath,  not  only  was  he  punished 
for  that  foraging  visit  to  his  mother's  room  —  when  he  had 
stood  under  the  hung-up  skirt  feeling  for  the  pocket,  the 
pocket  that  held  the  purse  —  but  the  top  was  taken  from 
him.  That  was  unjust;  the  whole  thing  was  unjust. 
A  boy  ought  to  have  enough  pocket-money  to  get  anything 
he  wanted  badly ;  and  if  the  pocket-money  were  not  forth- 
coming, he  should  not  be  held  to  account  if  on  occasions 
he  helped  himself.  What  else  could  he  do?  Parents 
didn't  understand.  They  were,  too,  so  tiresomely  sus- 
picious. After  the  episode  of  the  top  his  father  had 
made  a  practice  of  going  through  Harry's  pockets  on  a 
Saturday.  He  even  called  on  the  boy  to  account  for  his 
possessions ! 

"Jack  Collins  gave  you  this  ice-cream  glass?  Where 
did  he  get  it?" 


102  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Dunno." 

"  I  don't  suppose  he'd  more  right  to  it  than  you  have. 
You'd  better  ask  him  where  it  came  from." 

"  Oh,  I  can't,  father." 

"  Well,  you  aren't  going  to  have  things  you  can't  ac- 
count for." 

The  result  when  he  said  he  had  "  found  "  a  lens  and  a 
pair  of  folding-scissors  proved  as  unsatisfactory.  "  You 
can't  be  always  finding  things,  Henry." 

And  these  troubles  had  come  upon  him  not  because  he 
had  money,  but  because  he  lacked  it!  He  knew,  too, 
that  if  he  had  not  the  wherewithal  to  stand  Bill  Mountain 
a  can  or  two  of  beer  that  evening  he  would  certainly  not 
get  the  lesson  he  craved.  "  Can't  you  spare  me  another 
penny  or  two  this  week?  " 

"  I  shan't  be  able  to  make  both  ends  meet  as  it  is," 
and  Harry,  following  her  glance,  realized  that  for  once 
he  and  she  were  in  like  case.  He  laughed  good-naturedly. 
Need  of  money  had  taught  him  sundry  ways  of  procuring 
a  few  pence  and  he  need  not  worry ;  but  she  was  different. 
He  wondered  how  she  would  excuse  herself  to  the  purse- 
bearer,  whether  she  would  be  able  to  hold  her  own. 

"What,  more  curtains,  mother?"  he  chuckled. 
"  Whatever  will  father  say  ?  " 

"  Go  and  wash,  Henry." 

The  boy  crossed  to  the  sofa.     "  And  two  pairs !  " 

"  Don't  you  touch  them  with  your  dirty  hands." 

"  I  wonder  you  encourage  old  Chew." 

"  A  fair-dealing,  civil  man." 

"  An  old  apple-woman !  "  cried  Impudence.  "  Big  fine 
chap  like  that,  he  ought  to  be  a  Guardsman.  Really, 
mother,  I'm  surprised  at  you !  " 

"  Get  along  with  you,  do."  She  pursued  him  with  a 
teacloth.  "  Take  that  kettle  of  hot  water  and  mind  you 


The  Rolling  Stone  103 

rinse  your  hands  properly  before  you  dry  them.  No  need 
to  make  the  towel  dirty." 

She  carried  her  tray  into  the  dining-room  and  laid  the 
cloth.  If  her  husband  accepted  Mrs.  Allen's  ready  invi- 
tation she  —  the  poor  wife  who  was  left  at  home  —  would 
have  to  cut  the  ham  and  the  bread,  as  well  as  pour  out 
the  tea.  A  lot  for  one  person  to  do.  Her  glance  fell  on 
the  basket  of  stockings.  The  clean  clothes  had  been 
mended  and  put  away,  but  the  stockings  remained.  Such 
a  big  pile !  She  had  washed  them,  and  she  remembered  the 
holes  and  the  thin  places.  She  would  have  to  spend  the 
evening  darning  them.  She  would  be  all  by  herself, 
drawing  the  worsted  backwards  and  forwards  across  the 
heels,  slaving  for  her  children  and  husband. 

All  by  herself! 

in 

The  little  girls  came  in  to  their  tea.  A  buzz  of  subdued 
conversation  —  for  the  Kings  were  brought  up  on  the 
axiom  that  children  should  be  seen  and  not  heard  — 
marked  their  entry,  and  Mrs.  King  began  to  cut  bread 
and  butter  it.  A  little  clash  made  her  look  up,  and  she 
saw  that  Harry,  a  scrubbed  and  towelled  Harry,  his  black 
hair  in  wet  rings,  had  come  in  carrying  a  handleless  cof- 
fee-pot and  an  old  kettle. 

"  Can  I  have  these?  " 

She  understood  the  request  as  a  development  of  that 
for  more  pocket-money.  If  Harry  could  not  get  a  thing 
one  way  ha  would  try  another  and  yet  another;  he  would 
not  rest  till  he  had  what  he  wanted.  "  Hold  the  kettle 
up  to  the  light."  She  peered  inside.  "  Three  holes.  I 
might  get  a  new  bottom  put  to  it  —  hardly  worth  while. 
What  do  you  want  with  them?  " 

"  They  are  in  the  way,  kicking  about  here," 


104 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  Take  them  to  the  metal-broker." 

"  Very  well ;  but  come,  now,  and  get  your  tea." 

Harry  put  kettle  and  pot  in  a  corner  of  the  tiled  hall. 
Old  Gibbons  paid  for  broken  iron  at  the  rate  of  a  penny 
a  pound,  and  there  was  plenty  of  it  in  the  railway  town. 
The  boy  thought  of  the  black  heaps  at  the  brickfield, 
the  banks  of  the  canal,  all  the  back  lanes  and  yards  and 
alleys  that  had  yielded  him  treasure  of  discarded  pots. 
Had  he  or  had  he  not  enough  metal  and  —  er  —  rags  for 
his  adventure? 

"  Don't  bolt  your  tea,"  admonished  Mrs.  King. 

"  Didn't  want  to  keep  you  waiting." 

The  idea  of  Harry  keeping  anybody  waiting  amused 
the  mother.  He  was  always,  not  exactly  in  a  hurry, 
but  so  swift.  Before  you  could  look  round  he  had 
come  and  he  was  gone  —  gone,  too,  so  that  you  had  not 
been  aware  of  him  as  he  passed.  Her  glance  rested  on 
him  thoughtfully.  "  How  —  how  fat  —  why,  Henry!  '* 
She  caught  hold  of  his  sleeve.  "  You've  got  on  two 
coats ! " 

"  Cold !  "  and  Harry  twitched  his  arm  away. 

"  Cold  ?  But  this  isn't  an  overcoat  ?  You  —  you 
aren't  cold." 

"  Well,"  he  muttered,  "  it  was  easier  to  carry." 

"  To  carry  where?  " 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  Henry ! " 

"  It's  an  old  coat,  it's  —  it's  ragged." 

"  It's  your  second-best." 

He  showed  a  tear  of  recent  origin.  "  And  the  lining's 
gone." 

"  That  can  be  mended.  Take  it  off,  sir ;  yes,  now  at 
once," 


The  Rolling  Stone  105 

"  I  thought  it  was  done  for ;  I  did  really." 

"  You  were  taking  it  to  the  old-clothes  man." 

"  Well,  mother,  you  know  you  like  me  to  get  rid  of  the 
rags  for  you." 

As  he  dragged  his  arms  out  of  the  tightly  fitting  coat 
Mrs.  King  caught  sight  of  a  bulging  pocket.  Ignoring 
his  objections,  she  investigated  it,  and  produced  a  red- 
and-black  object,  at  the  sight  of  which  one  of  the  little 
girls  uttered  a  cry. 

"  It  is  the  frock  Auntie  Bertha  made  for  Nancy's 
doll." 

"  It  was  on  the  nursery  floor." 

"  It's  mine,"  said  Nancy. 

"  I  wanted  to  teach  her  to  be  tidy." 

When  Harry  at  last  escaped  it  was  with  the  feeling  that 
his  efforts  for  the  good  of  the  family  had  been  sadly 
misconstrued.  Noiselessly  he  picked  up  the  broken  coffee- 
pot and  kettle.  So  arbitrary  were  the  ways  of  parents 
that  his  mother  might  even  deprive  him  of  these  useless 
sherds.  Hitherto  she  had  been  grateful  to  him  for  rid- 
ding her  of  such  rubbish,  but  you  never  knew.  He  did 
not  feel  safe  until  he  had  handed  them  over  to  old  Fred 
Gibbons  and  received  the  price. 

IV 

On  his  way  to  the  "  Pig  and  Whistle,"  favoured  by  Bill 
Mountain  because  it  was  the  only  "  house  "  which  allowed 
a  customer  to  sit  in  the  chimney  corner  and  watch  his 
beer  being  mulled,  Harry  reflected  ruefully  on  the  trials 
of  home  life.  If  it  had  not  been  for  his  mother's  meanness 
with  regard  to  old  clothes,  he  would  have  had  enough 
and  more  than  enough  for  the  treating  of  the  ex-prize- 
fighter. He  counted  his  pence;  they  would  buy  two 


106  The  Rolling  Stone 

pots  and  that  was  all.  Moreover,  there  would  not  be  a 
penny  left  for  sweets  or  any  of  the  things  he  himself 
wanted.  A  lesson  from  Bill  Mountain,  however,  would  — 
if  he  could  persuade  the  man  to  give  it  —  be  worth  more 
than  a  week's  pocket-money.  Slipping  between  the  swing- 
doors  of  the  tavern,  his  glance  fell  on  the  pugilist  seated 
in  his  customary  corner.  Behind  him  rose  the  black  wood 
of  the  settle,  and  against  it  the  pale  shades  of  his  cordu- 
roys, of  his  greyish  hair,  his  shaven  face,  showed  up 
clearly.  Bill,  a  clay  between  his  lips,  was  ruminating 
over  a  past  of  which  he  had  no  reason  to  be  ashamed 
when  Harry,  with  one  of  his  quick  movements,  became 
a  part  of  the  scene  on  which  the  man's  glance  was  resting. 
Gradually  he  became  aware  of  Harry,  of  respectful  youth 
eager  to  replenish  his  beer-can,  of  youth  ready  to  talk 
but  too  modest  to  venture  a  remark.  Mountain's  pale 
eyes,  neither  grey  nor  green  but  diamond-bright,  twinkled 
acceptance  of  the  beer,  and  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
drawn  into  conversation.  Before  long  he  had  embarked 
on  his  most  famous  tale,  his  fight  with  the  Waterloo  Kid ; 
and  in  the  end  Harry  received  the  offer  for  which  he  had 
been  angling. 

Old  Bill  would  put  him  up  to  a  "  wrinkle  or  two." 

That  first  lesson,  precursor  of  many,  was  given  at  the 
man's  cottage  in  Cranford  Lane.  "  The  old  woman's 
out  tonight ;  washes  for  some  of  the  people  in  the  New 
Town,  and  Fridays  she  trundles  it  home  and  gets  her 
money.  We  shall  have  the  place  to  ourselves." 

He  sought  the  key  in  a  window-box  full  of  autumnal 
flowers,  found  it,  threw  open  the  door  —  all  in  a  noiseless 
fashion  which  Harry,  his  own  movements  sure,  could  ap- 
preciate. "  Wait  here  a  moment  while  I  turn  up  the 
light." 

The  cottage  was  not  altogether  in  darkness,  for  a  fire, 


The  Rolling  Stone 107 

which  had  been  slacked  down,  glimmered  in  the  grate 
and  from  the  mid-rafter  of  the  kitchen  hung  a  lamp.  As 
the  flame  in  this  waxed  at  Mountain's  touch,  it  revealed 
to  Harry  a  room  different  from  any  he  had  hitherto  seen, 
a  room  that'  in  some  way  reminded  him  of  ships'  cabins. 
He  glanced  round,  wondering  why  in  this  roomy  place  he 
should  think  of  a  cabin,  and,  so  wondering,  saw  that  the 
trifles  which  lie  about  in  other  houses  had  in  this  been 
tidied  away,  and  that  what  pictures  decorated  the  walls 
were  not  hung  but  pasted. 

On  the  dresser  stood  a  pair  of  scales  and  a  basket 
for  clean  linen,  but  the  china  which  should  have  bright- 
ened the  shelves  was  absent.  The  place  contained  noth- 
ing that  could  be  jarred  or  shaken  down  by  heavy 
vibrations. 

"  I  like  light,"  said  Mountain,  pausing  for  a  moment 
under  the  lamp,  "  and  I  like  to  be  warm.  Come  on  in 
and  shut  the  door." 

Harry,  obeying  him,  felt  his  feet  grit  on  the  sanded 
floor.  There  was  nothing  on  it  over  which  a  man  might 
trip.  The  boy  became  aware  that  this  room  had  been 
set  forth  with  an  end  in  view,  and  at  the  thought,  some- 
thing rose  for  a  moment  in  his  throat. 

Mountain  poked  the  fire  into  an  upleap  of  flame,  and 
Harry,  watching  him  with  eyes  which,  though  respectful, 
were  closely  observant,  found  the  quality  of  the  room 
repeated  in  its  owner.  The  man,  though  middle-aged, 
was  light  on  his  feet.  He  moved  so  quickly  that  his  going 
baffled  the  eye.  His  assault  on  the  dull-burning  coals 
had  been  as  irresistible  as  the  blow  of  a  Nasmyth  hammer. 
Definite,  simple,  expert,  he  had  been  built,  muscled, 
trained  to  one  purpose,  to  a  single  end,  and  he  had  fulfilled 
himself. 

"  Like  to  see  my  gloves  ?  " 


108  The  Rolling  Stone 

Harry's  mere  respect  deepened  to  reverence.  "  Oh,  I 
should." 

With  a  little  shining  key  that  was  warm  from  his 
pocket,  Mountain  opened  a  box  which  stood  on  a  shelf 
under  the  dresser,  and  took  therefrom  a  pair  of  well- 
blooded,  four-ounce  fighting-gloves.  "  These  have  been 
in  many  a  good  mill,"  he  said,  and  Harry  was  allowed 
to  hold  them,  even  to  draw  them  on  his  hands.  He  stood 
staring  at  them  in  a  rapturous  dream  —  at  the  brown 
leather  with  finger-tips  cut  away,  backs  slightly  padded, 
and  in  the  palm  a  little  silk-edged  ventilation-hole. 

"  You  can  fight  harder  with  the  gloves  than  with  the 
bare  dooks,"  said  Mountain,  looking  at  knuckles  so  big 
and  bony  that  they  seemed  to  give  his  assertion  the  lie. 
"  You  see,  it  puts  more  body  into  the  punch." 

"  I  — "  said  Harry,  quite  unable  to  express  his  feelings 
and  with  that  odd  feeling  still  at  the  back  of  his  throat  — 
"I  — oh!" 

Mountain,  rescuing  the  gloves,  assumed  an  air  of 
business.  He  had  remembered  that  before  long  his  wife 
would  be  home,  and  that  on  a  Friday  night  she  always 
bought  something  extra  toothsome  for  supper.  "  There's 
a-many  come  to  me  to  know  if  they'll  make  good  fighters," 
said  he,  anxious  to  give  the  boy  good  measure,  not  so 
much  for  the  beer  as  for  his  whole-hearted  admiration. 
When  you  are  getting  long  in  the  tooth  ..."  D'yer 
know  what  I  look  for  first?  " 

"  I  don't,"  said  Harry,  but  hopefully. 

Seating  himself  on  the  white  sand-scoured  table,  Moun- 
tain put  his  hand  under  the  boy's  chin  and  tilted  back 
the  heavily  boned  face.  "  I  look  at  the  nostrils.  A  chap 
never  does  any  good  if  his  nostrils  are  pinched." 

"  Oh ! "  For  all  Harry  knew  his  nose  might  have 
failed  him  in  this  important  particular. 


The  Rolling  Stone 109 

"  Yours  are  all  right,"  grunted  the  arbiter,  "  and  your 
neck  is  short,  and,"  he  laid  his  hands  on  the  boy's  back 
and  chest,  "  yes,  you  are  thick."  His  appraising  glance 
swept  the  small  erect  figure,  divining  under  the  clumsy 
clothes  its  promise  of  brawn.  "  I  can  teach  you  proper," 
he  said,  and,  guessing  at  Harry's  wild  hopes,  added  a 
rider,  "  but  if  I  do  you  must  use  your  knowledge  like  a 
sport  and  not  to  cock  it  over  other  boys." 

The  colour  came  into  the  lad's  face.  "  The  others," 
said  Mountain,  "  won't  have  the  advantage  of  being 
primed  by  an  old  bruiser  like  me.  Now  — "  and  Harry 
noticed  that,  though  the  man  sat,  he  was  not  still;  also 
that  in  every  movement  was  a  suggestion,  a  suggestion  the 
observer  could  not  fathom  but  which  kept  him  on  the 
alert.  "  Now  let  us  get  to  work.  What  are  the  four 
punches  that  will  put  a  man  to  sleep?  " 

In  his  unscientific  scrapping  with  other  boys  Harry 
had  come  to  certain  conclusions.  "  Well,"  he  said  shyly, 
"  I  should  avoid  the  nose  because  it  bleeds  and  then  the 
boy  blubs  and  people  stop  you." 

"  The  nose  don't  matter.  You  soon  get  it  broken, 
any  way." 

His  indifference  to  facial  disfigurement  lifted  Harry  out 
of  a  world  in  which  parents  complained  to  other  par- 
ents —  his  —  of  damage  done.  "  I  always  try  to  bung 
up  their  eyes." 

"  And  they  don't  matter  either ;  though  it's  a  good 
thing  to  have  them  set  well  back  behind  the  bone  —  like 
yours.  No,  the  four  vital  spots  are :  the  point !  Do  you 
know  where  that  is?" 

Harry  indicated  his  square  and  dimpled  chin. 

"  Ay,  on  each  side  of  it,  about  an  inch  up.  Hit  a  man 
there  and  the  jerk  dislocates  his  neck!  That  knocks  him 
out.  To  guard  the  point  you  carry  your  chin  like  this," 


110  The  Rolling  Stone 

He  moved  upon  Harry,  a  movement  the  boy  countered 
by  a  nimble  retreat.  Mountain  kept  him  wary,  kept  his 
faculties  on  the  stretch;  yet  the  atmosphere  of  the  bare 
room,  of  the  talk,  made  him  feel  at  home.  Here  he  could 
be  himself.  He  was  entirely  comfortable,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  clean  cottage,  the  simple  ways,  were  all 
a  man  could  want  —  all  that  he,  Harry,  would  ever  want. 
His  good  father,  his  schoolmasters,  set  a  value  on  all  sorts 
of  unnecessary  things,  things  to  gain  which  a  man  had 
to  work  hard  and  long  and  distastefully.  Old  Bill  had 
not  thought  them  worth  while ;  instead  he  had  done  the 
thing  natural  to  him. 

Harry's  poor  father  was  the  servant  of  the  railway 
and  must  do  and  go  as  he  was  bidden.  In  Mountain  the 
boy  sensed  an  attitude  that  was  primitive  and  wild.  The 
man  obeyed  the  promptings,  the  incalculable  promptings, 
of  an  emotional  nature.  How,  in  a  world  of  compromise, 
of  economic  dependence,  was  he  able  to  maintain  his  free- 
dom? Harry  answered  the  question  in  his  own  way: 
Mountain  was  strong. 

"  The  other  vital  points,"  said  the  prize-fighter,  "  are 
the  heart,  the  temple,  and  the  mark.  Some  calls  the 
mark,"  his  finger  rested  on  Harry's  solar  plexus,  "  the 
half-crown ;  it's  about  the  size  of  one.  It's  between  wind 
and  water."  He  went  over  the  information  again,  driv- 
ing it  home,  amplifying  it  as  he  did  so  with  guards,  with 
the  free  movements  of  the  left  arm,  the  threat  of  the  more 
powerful  right. 

"  Now  we  can  get  on  a  bit.  And  to  begin  with,  my 
lad,  how  should  you  stand?  If  a  boy  comes  up  to  you 
and  says,  '  Look  here,  young  shaver,  I've  had  enough 
of  your  cheek  and  I'm  going  to  give  yer  what  for,'  d'yer 
stand  like  this  ?  "  He  drew  back  his  head,  sloping  his 


The  Rolling  Stone 111 

body  from  an  imaginary  adversary,  his  attitude  the  em- 
bodiment of  fear. 

Harry  shook  his  head. 

"You  don't?" 

"  I  go  for  him." 

Mountain's  scarred  face  relaxed.  "  And  why  shouldn't 
you  stand  like  this  ?  " 

"  Dunno."  He  knew  it  was  the  fury  of  his  onslaught 
that  made  a  fight  with  him  dreaded  by  the  other  boys, 
but  he  could  not  say  why  he  rushed  the  attack. 

"  Because,"  said  the  other,  his  trained  muscles  main- 
taining the  awkward  attitude  with  ease,  "  because  in  this 
position  you  are  already  half-way  to  the  ground,  and  the 
first  time  he  hits  you  he  puts  you  there.  No,  you  throw 
yourself  forward."  He  was  on  his  toes,  transformed  into 
a  battering-ram.  Harry  felt  that  to  be  shut  up  with  him 
in  a  room  was  like  playing  rabbit  to  a  caged  python. 

"  He  meets  you  first  then,  with  all  your  weight  behind 
it." 

The  boy  nodded,  but  kept  a  space  of  sanded  floor 
between  himself  and  his  redoubtable  teacher. 

"  If  you  stand  like  this  " —  he  was  thrown  forward, 
bony  head  first,  fists  moving,  heavy  body  behind  — "  the 
other  chap  has  to  lift  you  up  and  push  you  back ;  both, 
before  he  can  knock  you  down.  See?  " 

"  I  see." 

"  We'll  have  a  go  to  find  out  what  you  can  do.  Take 
off  your  coat."  He  shed  his  own,  laying  it  with  tie  and 
collar  on  the  table,  then  put  a  belt  about  his  middle. 
A  thirteen-stone  man,  his  chest  muscles  stood  out  in  mas- 
sive curves  above  a  twenty-five-inch  waist. 

"  My  word,"  said  Harry,  opening  his  eyes,  "  but  you 
are  a  man !  " 


112 The  Rolling  Stone 

Though  old  Bill  pretended  not  to  hear,  he  was  enjoying 
his  evening.  Fighting  was  his  craft  and  to  impart  the 
rudiments  of  it  a  pleasure.  As  he  tightened  the  belt 
about  his  trousers  he  continued  to  talk.  "  There's  the 
arm-blow,  now,  and  that  won't  hurt  a  man,  nohow.  You? 
Ah,  but  you  are  soft.  The  man  isn't  living  who  can  hurt 
me  with  an  arm-blow;  the  most  he  could  do  would  be  to 
punch  my  nose  and  make  it  bleed,  but  that  don't  hurt." 

Though  Harry  came  of  a  hard  and  vigorous  family,  not 
one  of  them  could  take  punishment  in  this  primitive 
fashion.  "  It's  the  body  behind  the  blow,"  explained  the 
boxer,  "  that  gives  the  power,  the  strength  of  the  body 
from  the  waist  up.  Well  —  now  then." 

He  moved  on  Harry,  and  Harry,  seeing  him  as  incarnate 
strength,  as  a  will  concentrated  on  his  destruction,  yet 
accepted  the  challenge.  In  his  throat  was  that  queer 
thrill,  nearly  a  sob  but  not  quite.  The  shallow  hope§ 
and  observations  of  his  individual  life  had  begun  to 
fade;  something  deeper  was  answering  Mountain's  call, 
responding  to  the  menace  with  one  younger,  less  terrible 
perhaps,  but  as  fierce. 

"  Now  then,  let  out  with  your  left,  don't  come  teetering 
up  like  an  old  gal.  Come  on  now,  come  on.  Your  left; 
that's  it." 

Harry,  moving  quickly  round  and  over  the  lamplit 
kitchen,  answered  to  the  stimulus  of  the  exciting  phrases 
with  an  earnest  collection  of  himself  into  one  aspect  which 
yet  was  not  himself  but  the  weapon  of  some  unknown  and 
greater  force.  Mountain,  slapping  him  lightly  with  the 
open  hand,  sent  him  reeling,  a  catch  in  his  breath,  against 
the  table,  against  the  dresser.  He  fell  back  before  those 
lightning  slaps,  but  only  to  come  on  again,  and  his  face, 
for  all  its  soft  boyish  contours,  was  as  set  as  that  of  the 
man. 


The  Rolling  Stone 


"  Now  then,  come  on,  hit  out  ;  come  on  then.  Fight  — 
fight  —  " 

Harry  was  no  longer  an  individual,  he  was  part  of  a 
whole,  subservient  to  the  swell  of  emotion  that  was  di- 
recting him,  one  wave  of  a  mighty  sea.  The  insistent 
voice,  hard  and  fierce,  brought  him  racing  on  to  the  shore. 

"  Fight,  will  you  ?     Fight  !  " 

And  what  was  the  shore  but  a  destroying  force? 

"  Come  on  now,  fight." 

With  the  fingers  of  the  large  hand  set  straight  and 
close,  the  boxer  touched  Harry  wherever  he  would.  He 
drove  the  boy  about  until  he  had  taken  the  last  ounce 
of  his  strength,  till  Harry  fell  against  the  matchboard  of 
the  kitchen  cupboard  and  lay  there,  sobbing. 

"  You'll  do  !  "  grunted  Mountain,  pulling  him  to  his 
feet. 

His  head  under  the  cold-water  tap  in  the  back  kitchen, 
his  sobs  dying  away,  Harry  came  to  his  normal  self.  The 
queer  emotion  had  sunk  into  the  depths  of  his  being. 
For  a  moment  he  had  been  out  of  himself,  but  now  he 
was  once  more  Harry  King. 

And  the  said  Harry  had  had  a  wonderful  evening.  He 
had  stood  up  to  a  real  fighting-man! 

He  hardly  realized,  so  full  of  himself  was  he,  that  Mrs. 
Mountain  was  come  back. 

"  Chitterlings,"  cried  she  on  a  note  of  triumph,  and 
when  Harry  said  good  night  to  his  mentor  he  saw  that 
Mountain's  face  wore  a  look  of  happy  anticipation. 

"  'Ope  you're  'ungry,  Bill?  " 

"  Well,  old  woman,  I  could  do  with  a  bit,"  and  the 
cottage  door  shut  on  their  mutual  content. 


114  The  Rolling  Stone 


When  Harry  reached  home  St.  Luke's  clock  was  strik- 
ing ten.  He  judged  it  advisable,  therefore,  to  go  in  by  the 
back  door,  was  indeed  relieved  to  find  it  on  the  latch. 
Leaving  his  boots  in  the  scullery,  he  walked  with  careful 
lightness  across  the  hall.  If  he  could  get  upstairs  unseen 
all  would  be  well. 

A  light  shone  from  the  half-open  dining-room  door  and 
he  could  hear  the  voices  of  his  parents.  The  stairs  went 
up  abruptly  from  this  door,  and  Harry  paused  for  a 
moment  on  the  mat  at  the  foot.  He  had  caught  a  phrase 
that  interested  him. 

"  Well,  you  see,  they  were  such  a  bargain." 

"  Yes,  but,  my  dear,"  expostulated  his  father,  "  you 
didn't  want  them." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.     I've  none  too  many." 

"  The  man  is  a  regular  nuisance.  He  takes  good  care 
not  to  come  when  I'm  at  home." 

"  You  weren't  at  home,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  King,  and 
Harry  noticed,  without  understanding  it,  a  peculiar  in- 
flexion in  her  voice,  "  you  had  just  gone  up  the  road." 

His  father  responded  as  if  suddenly  put  on  his  defence. 
"  I'd  got  the  pass  and  I  didn't  like  to  keep  them  waiting 
for  it." 

"  No,  you  make  the  fatherless  and  the  widow  your  first 
care.  Well,  I  think  it's  time  for  bed." 

And  the  scrape  of  her  chair  sent  Harry  flying  up  the 
stairs. 


Chapter  VIII 


"\  "IT  THAT  were  you  doing  last  night,  Henry?  " 
V/Y/     ^   there   was   one   tning  Harry  disliked  it 
was    having   to    render   an    account    of   his 
comings  and  goings.     He  began  to  eat  his  dinner  as  if 
pressed  for  time.     "  I  was  having  a  lesson." 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  the  three  little  sisters 
pricked  up  their  ears.  Harry  studious  was  a  Harry  un- 
known to  them. 

"  What  sort  of  a  lesson  ?  "  asked  Mr.  King. 

"  A  lesson  in  boxing!  " 

The  father's  face  relaxed.     "Who  was  your  teacher?  " 

"  A  man  named  Mountain."  He  gave  the  name  with 
confidence;  it  would  not  awaken  echoes  in  these  innocent 
minds. 

Mr.  King  remembered  that  one  of  the  teachers  in  the 
Sunday-school  had  spoken  to  him  of  the  value  of  physical 
exercise.  He  had  never  had  any  use  for  it  himself,  but 
he  perceived  that  it  might  help  to  keep  the  demon  of 
youthful  sensuality  in  check.  Could  the  man's  name  have 
been  Mountain? 

"  Does  he  teach  in  St.  Luke's  Sunday  School?  " 

Harry  thought  it  unlikely. 

"How  did  you  come  across  him?" 

"  A  chap  told  me  this  other  chap  could  box,  so  I  went 
and  saw  him  about  it." 

On  the  whole,  this  venture  met  with  Mr.  King's  ap- 
proval. "  The  boys  at  the  works  are  a  rough  lot  .  .  ." 

he  began  thoughtfully. 

115 


116 The  Rolling  Stone 

To  Harry  the  roughness  of  his  fellow-apprentices  was 
of  no  moment;  what  he  could  not  stomach  was  their 
dirt  —  dirty  minds  in  dirty  bodies,  dirty  talk  —  he  could 
not  stand  it !  He  would  go  elsewhere  for  his  associates ; 
and  his  thoughts  flew  to  the  evening  company  at  the 
"  George,"  where  the  bar  was  presided  over  by  handsome 
Polly  Martin.  The  talk  there  was  of  horses  and  dogs, 
and,  comparatively  speaking,  it  was  clean. 

"  And  it  is  perhaps  as  well  you  should  know  how  to 
stand  up  for  yourself,"  Concluded  Mr.  King. 

"  What  about  turning  the  other  cheek?  "  asked  Mrs. 
King. 

"  Well  —  er  — "  the  father  smiled  over  the  vision  she 
had  conjured  up,  the  vision  of  Harry  turning  that  cheek, 
"  it  might  be  misunderstood." 

"  The  meek  shall  inherit  the  earth." 

"  True,  my  dear,  but  is  it  worth  inheriting?  " 

She  stared  at  him  in  surprise.  In  the  chapel  she  at- 
tended no  one  commented  on,  much  less  questioned,  a 
pious  utterance.  "  It  was  a  reward." 

"  We  are  not  told  so,  and  it's  my  humble  belief  that 
by  the  meek  was  meant  the  farm-labourer.  He  certainly 
inherits  the  earth,  but  I've  never  thought  he  made  a  good 
thing  of  it." 

Invigorated  by  the  little  connubial  brush,  he  turned  to 
Harry.  "  You  know  I  don't  approve  of  fighting  for  fight- 
ing's sake." 

The  lad,  filling  his  recurrent  emptiness  with  cold  beef 
and  boiled  potatoes,  pondered  the  remark.  Mountain, 
the  clean  man  in  the  clean  cottage,  had  fought  for  fighting's 
sake,  because  it  came  natural  to  him  to  fight,  because 
he  had  a  fierce  instinctive  joy  in  the  giving  —  ay,  and  the 
receiving  —  of  a  blow,  and,  as  Harry  felt,  because  fighting 
was  for  him  the  work  he  had  been  put  here  to  do.  His 


The  Rolling  Stone ll? 

father    had    never    fought;    how    could    he    understand? 

"  Why  don't  you  approve?  " 

The  dogged  question  took  Mr.  King  by  surprise.  "  Oh 
—  er  —  because  it's  wrong." 

"Why?" 

A  boy  should  not  question  those  in  authority.  Mr. 
King  felt  uneasily  that  Harry,  even  Harry,  was  growing 
up.  Very  soon  only  the  little  girls  would  be  left. 

"Well  —  it's  brutalizing." 

The  final  word  had  been  spoken.  Prize-fighting  was  a 
brutal  sport,  on  a  level  with  bull-baiting  and  other  early 
English  pastimes.  He  was  surprised  to  annoyance  when 
Harry,  with  an  air  of  wanting  to  know,  said,  "  How?  " 

A  note  of  asperity  crept  into  Mr.  King's  voice. 
Though  such  a  big  lad,  the  questioner  was  not  yet  of  an 
age  to  think  for  himself.  "  Prize-fighters,"  he  said,  "  are 
a  drinking,  betting,  pot-hunting,  low  lot.  And  that  is 
enough  about  it.  When  I  say  a  thing,  Henry,  you 
shouldn't  question.  I've  had  experience  and  I  know." 

Harry  considered  this.  "  But  I  can't  know  just  be- 
cause you  have  had  experience.  I've  got  to  find  out  for 
myself." 

"  When  you  are  older,  when  you  are  a  man.  Mean- 
while, you  can  take  it  from  me  that  prize-fighting  de- 
grades and  brutalizes."  , 

And  Harry  thought  of  Mountain. 

He  thought,  also,  of  a  conversation  he  had  that  morn- 
ing overheard.  His  foreman  was  talking  to  another  man 
and  he  was  supposed  to  be  too  busy  to  heed.  The  men 
had  said  his  father  was  stupid  and  narrow-minded,  that 
he  had  a  "  wonderful  "  boy,  a  boy  who  was  going  to  do 
something,  but  who  was  "  kept  down."  They  had  glanced 
at  Harry,  at  work  on  a  nut-lathe,  and  spoken  of  his 
football.  "  Mark  my  words,"  his  foreman  had  said,  "  we 


118  The  Rolling  Stone 

shall  see  that  lad  an  International."  A  murmur  from  the 
other  man,  and  then  the  foreman  said :  "  He  was  put  into 
our  best  team  this  season  and  I  hear  he's  shaping  extraor- 
dinarily well.  I'm  going  down  this  afternoon  to  see 
for  myself.  Pity  his  guv'nor  .  .  ." 

That  was  how  other  men  felt  and  thought  about  it. 

Harry  glanced  at  the  clock.  He  was  in  his  shorts,  had 
only  to  get  the  tasselled  cap  he  wore  with  so  much  pride. 

"  Have  you  chopped  the  wood,  Henry?  " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"Brought  in  the   coal?" 

"I  have." 

She  nodded,  and  her  son,  setting  back  his  chair,  went 
out  like  an  engine  starting  off  at  full  throttle.  At  the 
door,  however,  he  was  intercepted  by  his  sister  Bet. 

"  Be  back  early,  Bear." 

"Why?" 

"  We're  going  to  the  party  tonight  —  Susie  Allen's 
birthday-party." 

"  Good,"  he  said,  pleased  with  the  prospect.  "  Will 
there  be  dancing?  " 

"  I  expect  so." 

He  did  a  polka  down  the  hall,  and  for  the  moment  his 
mind  was  distracted  from  football  by  the  vision  of  Susie 
Allen,  the  little  girl  he  had  so  often  seen  returning  to  her 
home  from  school.  She  wore  her  fair,  glossy  hair  in 
short,  thick  curls  and  she  had  peculiarly  soft  eyes.  The 
eyes  had  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  at  this  big  boy  com- 
ing from  the  works  in  the  Old  Town  and,  though  dirty, 
with  a  something  about  him  which  made  him  not  easily  for- 
gotten. And  Harry  had  been  intrigued  by  the  curls. 
They  were  so  different  from  his  sisters'  tumbling  manes. 
He  wanted  to  see  them  close,  to  touch  their  smoothness 


The  Rolling  Stone 119 

with   a  tentative  finger.     It  seemed  to  him  unreal.     He 
would  not  be  content  until  he  knew. 


n 

Once  in  the  street,  his  pace  quickened.  His  Saturday 
afternoon  walk  to  the  football  field  was  a  play  he  was 
wont  to  stage-manage  with  considerable  care,  and  he  was 
afraid  lest  he  should  be  late.  By  back  lanes  and  alleys 
he  hurried  to  the  head  of  the  main  thoroughfare,  and, 
once  there,  ran  up  a  flight  of  steps  which,  ostensibly  lead- 
ing to  a  bank,  was  for  him  a  watch-tower.  He  was  on  the 
look-out  for  certain  people,  Great  Ones,  who  would  come 
this  way.  First  he  glanced  down  the  street  to  see  if  they 
had  passed,  then  up  to  see  if  they  were  coming.  In  that 
crowd  of  released  workers,  that  jabble  of  people  glad, 
after  the  week's  confinement,  to  be  free  and  in  the  open, 
it  needed  both  quick  and  clear  sight  to  distinguish  par- 
ticular faces.  Harry  studied  the  people  intently,  and  at 
length  caught  sight  of  the  men  for  whom  he  was  waiting, 
crossing  from  the  stopping-place  of  the  trams. 

He  intended  to  walk  before  then?  down  the  street,  to 
draw  their  attention  to  himself  and  listen  to  what  was 
said.  It  was  nuts  to  Harry  to  hear  men  discussing  him. 
He  would  play  all  the  better  for  the  knowledge  of  their 
faith  in  him.  He  had  done  well,  but  he  would  do  better. 
A  chance,  an  opportunity,  and  they  should  see. 

Returning  lightly  to  the  pavement,  he  waited  until 
the  Great  Ones  were  on  his  heels,  then,  adapting  his  pace 
to  theirs  strolled  ahead.  For  some  time  his  short,  thick, 
stubby  figure,  forging  its  casual  way  through  the  shifting 
groups  of  people,  failed  to  win  remark ;  but  in  the  end, 
a  wandering  eye  fell  on  the  thick,  shapely  calves,  fell 


120  The  Rolling  Stone 

with  recognition.  The  interest  of  the  expert  quickened. 
He  turned  to  the  man  with  whom  he  was  walking. 

"  Why,  there's  the  Rough  'Un." 

"Not  that  little  chap?" 

"Little?     Anyway,  he's  our  Champion  Chucker." 

"  You  catch  'em  young." 

"  Wait  till  you  see  him  pinch  the  ball  and  shove  it  to 
the  three-quarters.  Young  'uns  are  the  nippiest;  this 
one's  a  miracle."  The  voice  grew  confidential.  "  Man 
over  from  the  Rangers  last  week  —  noticed  the  Rough 
'Un's  play  .  .  ." 

"  I  bet  Fiander  don't  want  the  Rangers  snoopin'  round 
after  his  men." 

"  Ay,  Fiander  could  ha'  done  wi'out  him." 

Harry  had  warmed  to  the  word  "  miracle,"  but  what 
was  this  about  the  Rangers?  The  heat  of  his  internal 
combustion  engine  went  up  several  degrees.  The  Rangers 
were  an  important  team,  in  quite  a  different  class  from 
the  one  for  which  he  played.  Was  it  possible  they  would 
ever  ask  him  to  play  for  them?  He  wondered  if  a 
Ranger  were  likely  to  be  among  the  onlookers  that  after- 
noon. If  so  —  and  Harry  clenched  himself  on  a  resolu- 
tion to  do  his  best  and  more  than  his  best! 

He  was  put  to  mark  the  biggest  man  in  the  opposing 
team ;  and  the  man  was  inclined  to  be  contemptuous  of 
him  as  a  youngster  not  yet  come  into  his  strength.  The 
contempt  lasted  until,  for  the  first  time,  the  stranger's 
two  hands  touched  the  ball.  In  a  trice  the  Rough  'Un 
had  collared  him  round  the  knees,  was  pulling  him  forward. 
The  big  man  buckled  and,  a  ludicrous  expression  of 
amazement  on  his  face,  came  down.  A  roar  of  delighted 
approval  went  up  from  the  crowd.  Such  a  little  chap 
and  so  spunky!  Harry  heard  his  name  shouted  in  that 
great  blended  voice  —  not  his  baptismal  name,  but  the 


The  Rolling  Stone 121 

one  popularity  had  found  him.  "  Go  it,  Rough  'Un,  go 
it ! "  and  he  wondered  again  whether  a  Ranger  were  look- 
ing on. 

Bet  met  the  muddy  object  that  returned  in  triumph 
from  the  football  field  with  an  anxious  adjuration  to  be 
quick. 

"  We  won,  Bet  —  four  goals  to  nothing." 

"  Oh,  Bear,  we  are  so  late,  we  ought  to  be  there  by  now. 
Let  me  come  and  help  you  change?  " 

He  surveyed  the  muslin  frock  and  blue  sash  a  little 
dubiously.  "  The  others  ready?  " 

"  We've  been  ready  a  long  time." 

"My  things  out?" 

"  I've  put  them  on  your  bed." 

"  All  right,  then,  I  won't  be  half  a  tick.  And  I  say, 
Bet  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

"  I'm  hungry.     I  don't  believe  I  had  much  dinner." 

"  Yes,  you  did ;  I  saw." 

"  Anyway  .  .  ." 

"  They  give  us  a  scrumptious  tea  there." 

The  thought  of  a  candle-lit  table  with  coloured  cakes 
and  jellies,  perhaps  even  crackers,  made  his  mouth  water. 
Already  the  football  was  forgotten.  "  Still  .  .  ." 

"  I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  and  presently  she  came  run- 
ning up  the  stairs  with  a  big  hunch  of  cake. 

"  Are  you  ready,  Bear  ?  " 

"  Pretty  near.     I  say,  Bet,  you  are  a  bit  of  all  right." 

She  looked  down  at  her  frock.  "  It's  new.  We've  all 
got  new  muslin  frocks  and  they're  to  do  us  for  the  dancing- 
class.  Nancy  has  a  pink  sash  and  Mab's  is  green." 

"  Why  do  you  tie  your  curls  in  a  bunch?  " 

She  patted  the  big  blue  bow  on  her  neck  approvingly. 
"  It's  the  fashion." 


122  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Oh ! "  and  though  he  could  not  deny  that  "  the 
fashion  "  suited  Bet's  open  face,  he  knew  a  way  of  hair- 
dressing  that  was  prettier  far.  "  Come  on,  now.  I'm 
ready." 

Ill 

The  three  little  girls,  convoyed  by  a  spruce  brother, 
hurried  down  the  road.  They  did  not  want  to  be  late 
for  the  birthday-tea,  for  the  cake  which  the  pastrycook 
had  iced  and  on  the  white  sugar  of  which  would  be  written 
Susie's  name  in  pink  letters  and  the  date  of  her  birth. 
Several  little  families  had  gone  past  and  they,  waiting 
in  the  dining-room  while  Harry  dressed,  had  seen  them 
go.  Not  until  they  were  safely  under  Mrs.  Allen's  roof 
was  their  anxiety  allayed. 

"  Now  that  we  are  all  here,"  she  said  —  and  they  loved 
her  for  her  patience,  and  also  for  so  quickly  inaugurating 
the  joys  of  the  party — "  I  think  we  will  have  tea." 

On  each  child's  plate  was  a  pink  card  with  its  name, 
and  down  the  centre  of  the  laden  table  was  an  abundance 
of  crackers.  Mrs.  Allen  had  an  intuitive  knowledge  of 
the  food  young  people  preferred.  She  wanted  Susie  to 
enjoy  her  birthday  —  to  gain,  too,  a  little  experience,  so 
that  when  her  turn  came  she  might  be  able  to  give  suc- 
cessful parties.  Therefore  she  had  said,  "  To  begin  with, 
darling,  we'll  have  tea ;  it  breaks  the  ice." 

"  And  then,  mums  ?  " 

"  Then  a  lively,  stirring  sort  of  game ;  it  makes  people 
friendly." 

After  tea,  therefore,  Auntie  Maud  went  to  the  piano 
and  they  played  musical  chairs.  Harry,  with  the  energy 
football  had  depleted  restored  by  food  —  and  such  de- 
licious food  —  found  himself  running  round  a  diminishing 
row  of  seats  with  his  attention  divided  between  a  little  girl 


The  Rolling  Stone  123 

in  front  —  a  little  girl  whose  hair,  parted  on  a  neat  small 
head,  hung  in  large  glossy  curls  —  and  the  need  to  keep 
an  ever-changing  chair  in  view.  The  little  girl's  dress  was 
in  a  peculiar  way  different  from  that  of  other  little  girls. 
It  was  of  white  satin.  Yes,  the  satin  was  certainly  white, 
yet  in  the  folds  and  as  she  moved  it  glowed  as  if  the  slim 
bod}r  underneath  was  a  flame  and  was  shining  through. 
This  rosy  glow  at  once  pleased  and  puzzled  him;  it  drew 
his  curious  glance,  so  that  he  looked  at  her  all  the  time 
they  were  running  and  sitting  down  and  running  again. 
At  last  there  was  only  one  chair  and  they  were  running 
round  it,  but  by  then  Harry's  attention  was  so  much 
taken  up  with  the  mystery  of  the  frock  that  when,  the 
music  stopped  for  the  last  time  it  was  the  little  girl  who 
was  sitting  on  the  solitary  chair  and  not  he. 

He  did  not  mind  being  beaten  by  her,  for  as  she  sat 
down  she  lifted  her  skirt  a  little  and  he  saw  that,  under 
the  white  satin,  she  was  wearing  a  petticoat  of  flame- 
coloured  brocade.  Never  had  he  imagined  such  a  petti- 
coat !  He  had  seen  his  mother's,  drab  and  workaday ; 
the  little  plain  underskirts,  white  or  coloured  according 
to  the  season,  that  his  sisters  wore.  He  had  not  known 
there  was  in  the  world  such  a  petticoat  as  this  which  was 
flaming  through  the  frock  designed  to  hide  it.  When 
he  had  left  home  he  had  been  well  pleased  with  Bet's 
muslin  frock ;  he  now  regarded  it  no  more  than  the  rags 
he  was  wont  to  carry  to  the  old-clothes  man. 

IV 

When  the  young  people  had  been  warmed  out  of  their 
shyness  by  the  hearty  give-and-take  of  games  Auntie 
Maud  began  a  polka. 

"  Darling,"    and    Mrs.    Allen    laid    a    detaining    hand 


124 The  Rolling  Stone 

on    her    daughter's     arm,     "  where    are    you     going? " 

"  To  get  a  partner." 

"  But  little  girls  don't  ask  little  boys." 

"  Then,"  she  raised  troubled  eyes  to  her  mother's  face, 
"how  do  you  get  a  partner?  " 

"  If  you  wait  quietly,  a  boy  will  come." 

"  Oh,  but,"  said  Susie,  "  I  don't  want  any  boy." 

"  No,  but  still,  you  mustn't  do  the  asking." 

Susie  considered  this  until  mother-wit  showed  her  a 
way  out  of  the  difficulty.  She  walked  deliberately  into 
the  middle  of  the  room  and  stood  under  the  twinkling 
lustres  of  the  great  glass  chandelier.  If  she  might  not 
make  the  advances,  at  least  she  would  be  seen.  To  her 
it  seemed  of  the  utmost  importance  that  she  should  not 
be  overlooked,  and,  standing  in  the  blaze  of  light,  she 
lifted  her  soft  blue  eyes  and  looked  across  the  room. 

She  had  no  need  to  do  more.  Harry,  without  seeming 
to  do  so,  had  been  watching  the  little  head  set  round  with 
curls,  the  figure  in  that  glowing  frock.  He  had  seen  her 
leave  her  mother's  side.  He  waited  until  she  paused  under 
the  chandelier,  then  a  spirit  in  his  feet  brought  him  across 
to  her.  Neither  spoke  to  the  other,  but  he  put  an  arm 
round  her  waist  and  they  began  to  dance. 

"  So  that  was  the  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Allen  to  herself. 
"  Well,  yes.  .  .  ." 

Their  faces  as  they  swung  past  were  grave  and  they 
seemed  more  occupied  with  the  dance  than  with  each 
other,  for  neither  said  a  word.  They  danced  until  the 
music  stopped,  then  Harry  brought  his  partner  to  a  seat 
and  left  her. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Allen  again,  and  smiled. 

"  When  a  boy  wants  a  partner,"  said  Susie,  who  had 
been  meditating  on  her  mother's  convention,  "  he  looks 
about  him." 


The  Rolling  Stone 


"Yes?"  said  Mrs.  Allen. 

"  And  you  try  to  be  where  he  is  looking." 

When  the  dancing  recommenced  Harry  came  to  her  at 
once.  Other  boys  had  determined  to  ask  her  for  a  dance 
but  he  shouldered  them  aside,  and  she  took  his  doing  so 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  mother  to  herself. 

The  boy  and  girl  danced  every  dance  together.  They 
were  absorbed  and  quite  remarkably  silent.  Mrs.  Allen, 
watching,  did  not  see  them  exchange  a  single  word,  and 
when  Mr.  King  fetched  his  flock  they  parted  without  so 
much  as  a  handshake. 

A  quadrille  was  being  started,  and  Bertie  Nockolds, 
the  son  of  a  local  doctor,  thought  his  chance  was  come. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Susie  sedately,  "  I  don't  want 
to  dance  this,"  and  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye  Mrs.  Allen, 
as  she  arranged  the  sets,  saw  her  daughter  go  to  the 
window  and,  lifting  the  corner  of  the  blind,  peer  into  the 
night. 

"  Too  dark,"  she  thought,  but  the  young  things  knew 
better. 

Harry  had  fallen  behind  father  and  sisters  and  was 
looking  back.  He  felt  that  a  satisfaction,  a  last  sweet- 
ness, was  awaiting  him,  and  saw  without  surprise  the  lifted 
blind,  the  beam  of  light,  the  outline  of  a  little  head.  The 
street-lamp  made  him  darkly  visible.  He  raised  his  arm 
in  a  gesture  of  farewell,  his  gesture  and  for  her  only. 

The  evening  was  at  an  end,  their  evening;  but  he  knew 
now  the  reality  of  those  silky  curls.  He  had  touched 
them  surreptitiously,  touched  them  when  she  was  not 
noticing,  and  he  knew. 

Susie  had  not  been  noticing,  of  course,  but  —  she  also 
knew! 


Chapter  IX 


MEGAN  ROBERTS  stood  at  the  window  of  her 
attic  yawning.     The  Clarkes,  to  whom  she  had 
lately  come  as  mother's  help,  were  out  for  the 
day,  and  she  could  not  see  why,  if  they  were  enjoying 
themselves,  she  should  work. 

On  her  left  stretched  the  garden  —  two  plots  where 
other  houses  were  built  on  one  —  of  Mr.  King.  A  sound 
of  splashing  came  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the  scullery- 
door  but  Megan  heard  it  with  indifference.  In  all  proba- 
bility Mrs.  King,  whom  she  knew  by  sight,  was  washing 
down  the  yard ;  and  the  girl  could  imagine  the  shallow 
scurry  of  dirty  water  as  it  was  pushed  by  a  hard  brown 
broom  towards  the  open  drain.  She  did  not  turn  her 
head. 

Away  went  Polly, 

With  a  step  so  jolly 

That  I  knew  she'd  win  .  .  . 

sang  a  voice  which  she  recognized,  with  a  start,  as  mascu- 
line and  young.  A  tap  was  running,  but  above  the  gurgle 
of  water  rose  the  blithe,  resonant  tones,  the  words  clear 
as  if  spoken  in  her  ear: 

All  the  rest  were  licked  and  might 
As  well  ha'  ne'er  been  born. 
Whoa,  mare!     Whoa,  mare!     You've  earned 

Your  little  bit  of  corn. 
126 


The  Rolling  Stone 127 

Megan  ran  over  in  her  mind  the  next-door  household. 
As  far  as  she  knew,  it  consisted  of  some  bright,  vigorous- 
looking  girls,  a  bustling  mother,  and  a  handsome  middle- 
aged  man.  Harry,  who  was  at  the  works  by  six  and 
who  spent  his  evenings  in  town,  she  had  not  yet  seen. 
Could  the  singer  be  Mr.  King?  She  crossed  to  the  other 
side  of  the  window  and  looked  down.  From  where  she 
stood  she  had  a  good  view  of  the  yard  into  which  the 
scullery  door  opened,  of  its  capsized  pails  sweetening  in 
the  sun,  the  lumber  of  barrels  and  washing-trough,  and, 
under  the  window,  the  broad  bench.  As  she  glanced  over 
it  inquiringly,  a  youth  came  through  the  doorway  carrying 
a  pitcher  of  water  —  a  youth  who  was  naked  to  the  waist 
and  who  carried  the  heavy  vessel  as  if  it  had  been  empty. 
Harry  was  seventeen.  He  was  coming  into  his  strength, 
and  as  the  girl's  glance  fell  on  his  wide  shoulders  and 
the  square,  yet  rounded  barrel  of  his  chest  her  pulse 
quickened.  Never  had  she  seen  anything  so,  to  her  mind, 
•beautiful.  The  big  chest  fell  away  to  a  small  waist, 
and  under  the  loosely  girt  trousers  she  guessed  at  brawny 
curves  that  matched  the  big  and  shining  arms.  In  a  trice 
all  who  had  previously  caught  her  fancy  grew  shadowy. 
Harry,  still  singing,  poured  water  into  a  basin  and  began 
to  wash  off  the  grime  —  not  apparent  to  the  onlooker 
overhead  —  of  the  works.  His  head  was  pleasantly  full 
of  his  own  concerns.  As  captain  of  the  local  cricket  team 
he  had  embarked  on  a  successful  season.  The  previous 
Saturday  he  had  made  a  hundred  and  forty-five  not  out, 
and  he  hoped  to  do  better  at  the  match  they  were  playing 
with  the  Sissiter  eleven  a  fortnight  hence.  He  thought 
of  his  team.  Ward  was  a  good  bowler  but  he  pitched 
his  balls  too  short.  The  best  plan  would  be  to  mark 
the  blind  spot  and  make  him  practise.  He,  Harry,  must 
see  about  it. 


128 The  Rolling  Stone 

On  his  bare  back  beat  a  sudden  shower,  and  for  a 
moment  he  wondered  whether,  in  spite  of  the  sunshine 
and  cloudless  sky,  rain  could  be  falling.  The  shower  ap- 
pearing, however,  to  be  limited  to  a  small  area,  he  looked 
about  till  he  caught  sight  of  a  head  above  the 
wall,  a  head  with  michievous  eyes  and  strange  hair.  He 
had  never  seen  such  hair;  it  was  like  new  copper  wire. 

"  Hullo !  "  he  said,  picking  up  the  towel,  "  what  are 
you  doing?  " 

"  Only  watering  the  flowers."  As  she  spoke  she 
dropped  the  nozzle  of  the  hose,  and  it  spurted  harmlessly 
along  the  gravel-path  on  which  she  was  standing. 

Harry  thought  that  he  liked  the  look  of  her.  That 
hair  and  creamy  skin  and  long  narrow,  red-brown  eyes  — 
but  were  they  red-brown? 

"  You  aren't  a  Clarke  ?  "  They  were  dull  chaps,  the 
Clarkes,  could  not  play  games  for  toffee.  He  had  no  use 
for  them.  "What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"  I'm  helping  Mrs.  Clarke.  There  were  too  many  of  us 
at  home  and  it's  quiet  at  Lwm-crwn.  But  I  find  it  is 
quiet  here  too,  though  this  is  a  town." 

Harry  thought  he  had  never  heard  such  a  pretty  voice ; 
he  wanted  to  imitate  its  rise  and  fall.  "  There  are  the 
Clarkes,"  he  said,  instinct  teaching  him  why  such  an  one 
found  the  place  dull.  "Albert  .  .  ." 

"  Albert !  "  She  gave  him  a  sidelong  glance,  and  again 
he  wondered  whether  the  eyes  were  wholly  brown.  '*  I 
prefer  the  boy  on  the  other  side ! " 

"Old  Rube?" 

"  And  not  him,  either.  I  do  not  like  everybody ;  in- 
deed and  indeed  I  do  not,  so  I  am  lonely." 

Harry  registered  the  fact  that  the  voice  rose  at  the 
end  of  a  sentence.  As  soon  as  he  was  alone  he  would 
repeat  the  phrases  with  her  intonation.  "  Poor  little 


The  Rolling  Stone  129 

girl,"  he  said,  but  absently.  He  was  saying  over  to  him- 
self "  lonely."  He  was  giving  the  word  a  little  treble 
lilt. 

"  They  are  all  out.  They've  driven  over  to  Mr.  Endi- 
cott's  farm  to  make  hay  and  pick  strawberries.  They've 
left  me  behind." 

"What  a  shame!"  It  was  just  like  the  Clarkes,  the 
sort  of  thing  they  would  do.  The  idea  of  having  a  girl 
like  this  in  the  house  and  leaving  her  out  of  things ! 
Harry  waxed  indignant.  "  The  Clarkes  think  of  nobody 
but  themselves." 

"  It  would  not  have  hurt  them  to  have  taken  me." 

He  saw  her  lip  trembling,  perceived  that  she  was  dis- 
appointed. He  had  a  vision  of  Albert  sitting  beside  her 
in  the  wagonette,  tossing  hay  over  her,  able,  by  looking 
deep  into  those  troubling  eyes,  to  discover  —  what  was  it 
he  had  wanted  to  discover?  He  drew  a  step  nearer,  the 
towel  held  to  his  chin,  his  shoulders  gleaming  satin-white 
above  it.  But  the  sun  was  in  his  face,  he  could  not  see. 

"  I  hate  being  there,"  she  made  a  gesture  towards  the 
house,  "  by  myself.  The  rooms  are  dark."  She  shiv- 
ered as  if  their  gloom  were  uncanny,  and  as  she  moved,  the 
sun  glittered  in  her  coppery  hair.  "  I'd  gone  upstairs  to 
get  away  from  things."  She  pointed  to  her  window, 
and  he  saw  the  attic  through  her  eyes  as  a  haven. 
"  Then  " —  she  was  no  longer  piteous  — "  I  saw  you." 

II 

"  Henry ! "  cried  a  voice  from  the  interior  of  the  house, 
and,  as  if  the  sound  had  been  a  danger-signal,  the  red 
head  sank  out  of  sight.  Harry  was  putting  the  towel 
to  its  legitimate  use  when  the  voice  embodied  itself  in 
Mrs.  King. 


130  The  Rolling  Stone 

"Who  were  you  talking  to?" 

"  One  of  the  Clarkes." 

She  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  sun-fired  hair,  and,  the 
Clarkes  being  mud-coloured,  she  wondered  a  little  and 
doubted.  "  Your  father  wants  you.  He's  had  a  letter." 

"Where  is  he?"  The  Kings  having  but  few  corre- 
spondents, every  square  envelope  that  came  to  the  house 
was  regarded  by  youth  with  curiosity,  with  hope.  Harry 
turned.  Already  the  wash  of  a  new  interest  was  sweeping 
over  his  mind,  dimming  that  impression  of  a  full  throat, 
of  dazzling  hair.  She  was  by  no  means  the  first  who 
had  spoken  to  him,  but  he  did  not  care  about  girls.  Not? 
Well,  then,  yes,  he  did ;  after  all,  a  fellow  was  a  man. 
But  he  wanted  more  than  just  —  that;  something  dif- 
ferent. He  would  find  it  too  —  some  day.  For  the  mo- 
ment he  was  too  busy  to  go  and  look  for  it.  He  would 
content  himself  with  what  came;  but,  later  .  .  . 

"  Your  father  has  gone  upstairs  to  wash  his  hands." 

The  children,  the  whole  family,  knew  that  Mr.  King 
lived  a  little  private  life  of  his  own,  called  "  washing  his 
hands."  It  was  connected  with  the  big  green  safe  which 
stood  by  the  bed  in  his  room,  and  which  was  kept  locked. 
Whenever  money  was  unexpectedly  required  Mr.  King 
would  go  upstairs,  he  would  rub  his  pale  hands  one  over 
the  other  as  if  drying  them,  and  when  he  returned  he 
would  have  the  necessary  sum  in  his  pocket.  At  other 
times,  when  he  had  half  an  hour  to  spare,  he  would  dis- 
appear. The  key  would  be  turned  in  the  bedroom-lock 
and  silence  would  reign.  The  family  could  not  believe 
that  it  was  the  silence  of  inactivity ;  they  imagined  him 
mysteriously  busy  with  the  contents  of  the  safe.  Richard, 
whose  mind  had  been  influenced  by  books  of  adventure, 
thought  of  his  father  as  weighing  out  ounces  of  gold-dust 
and  gloating  over  precious  stones;  the  Codger  suspected 


The  Rolling  Stone  131 

him  of  collecting  something,  perhaps  beetles ;  while  Harry 
fancied  the  safe  must  contain  the  insignia  of  some  secret 
society,  a  society  like  the  one  to  which  he  belonged,  but 
more  mysterious.  To  all  the  children  the  safe  was  a 
mystery-box  which  they  would  have  liked  to  investigate, 
but  Harry  was  the  only  one  who  had  tried  to  discover 
where  his  father  kept  the  key. 


Ill 

In  response  to  the  boy's  knock  Mr.  King  came  to  the 
bedroom  door.  "  What  do  you  want?" 

"  Mother  sent  me  up." 

"  Oh,  ah,  yes."  He  stood  back,  and  Harry,  entering, 
sent  a  quick  glance  round  the  room.  To  his  surprise, 
the  door  of  the  safe  was  ajar;  so  also  was  the  door  of  a 
little  corner  bracket,  which  contained  a  few  medicines  such 
as  castor-oil,  Gregory's  powder,  Beecham's  Pills. 

"  I've  never  gone  through  that  cupboard  properly," 
thought  Harry,  and  resolved  to  repair  the  omission. 

"  Just  met  Archdeacon  Margerison ;  in  fact  — "  his 
smile  was  one  of  boyish  gratification,  "  in  fact,  he  walked 
home  with  me."  Harry,  perceiving  that  the  family  had 
received  its  due,  warmed  to  the  Archdeacon.  People  in 
high  places  were  not  always  so  discriminating.  "  He 
was  speaking  of  you." 

Alarming  that,  but  he  had  been  confirmed.  Surely 
there  was  nothing  more  they  —  the  parsons  —  could  do  to 
him? 

"  He  is  short  of  Sunday-school  teachers.  He  asked 
what  you  did  with  yourself  of  a  Sunday  afternoon." 

"  I  go  for  a  walk." 

"  It's  only  an  hour  out  of  the  afternoon." 

"  But  it's  the  only  afternoon  I  have." 


132  The  Rolling  Stone 

Mr.  King,  strolling  across  the  room,  pushed  the  gilt 
knob  of  the  safe,  and  the  door  shut  with  a  metallic  clang 
and  snap.  "  He  wants  you  to  take  the  big  boys'  class  j 
they've  got  rather  out  of  hand." 

Harry,  less  certain  that  he  required  the  whole  of  Sun- 
day afternoon  for  his  own  purposes,  was  still  cautious. 

"Where  is  it  held?  " 

"  In  the  little  classroom  at  the  schools.  They  have  it 
to  themselves." 

Which,  being  interpreted,  meant  that  he  would  have 
it  and  them  to  himself.  In  those  circumstances,  to  take 
the  big  boys  might  prove  amusing. 

"  Windle  used  to  teach  them,  but  last  Sunday  they 
locked  him  out,  so  he  has  thrown  up  the  job." 

Roseate  hues  began  to  play  over  the  Archdeacon's  re-> 
quest.  Take  the  big  boys'  class?  Harry  thought  he 
might. 

"What  time  ought  I  to  be  there?" 

"  Three  o'clock." 

"  Well  —  I  don't  mind."  He  was  turning  away  when 
he  remembered  that  his  mother  had  spoken  of  a  letter. 
"Anything  else?" 

Mr.  King  turned  the  key  in  the  oiled  lock  of  the  safe, 
and  Harry  saw  that  it  bore  a  tin  label,  forked  at  the  end. 
He  would  know  it  again. 

'*  Yes,"  said  the  older  man,  and  his  tone  was  business- 
like, "  I've  heard  from  the  naval  authorities." 

Harry  gaped  on  him  in  sudden  throbbing  joy,  the  rush 
of  feeling  so  strong  that  he  could  hardly  articulate. 
"You  have  heard?" 

"You  are  to  go  to  Bristol  for  the  physical  examina- 
tion." 

"When?" 

"  Tuesday  week," 


The  Rolling  Stone  133 

Mr.  King  went  into  details.  "  You  can  stay  the  night 
with  your  Uncle  Robert.  People  tell  me  there's  no  doubt 
of  your  getting  in  if  you  can  pass  the  physical  examina- 
tion." 

"  And  I'm  pretty  strong."  He  dwelt  with  satisfaction 
on  his  swelling  muscles.  The  Ramblers  had  asked  him 
to  play  for  them  next  season;  he  was  Captain  of  the 
Parkside  Cricket  Club;  captain,  too,  of  the  "Gym."  No 
doubt  about  his  strength!  Old  Liddicoat,  the  cost-price 
man,  had  said  there  wasn't  a  fellow  in  the  place  could 
stand  up  to  him,  and  it  was  true.  The  new  chaps  boxed 
with  him,  but  not  the  old;  they  knew.  Of  late  he  had 
been  swinging  locomotive-engine  brake-blocks  from  his 
teeth,  and  that  took  some  doing.  Strong?  He  hadn't 
his  match. 

"  I  know,  but  they  are  mighty  particular."  Harry 
heard  the  doubt.  Doubt?  Doubt  of  his  strength? 
Why  should  his  father  seek  to  belittle  it?  Though  no 
good  at  books,  he  was  a  right  engineer.  The  great  Mr. 
Steel,  the  works  manager,  who  had  once  seen  him  spar- 
ring, had  called  him  the  "  Pocket  Hercules."  As  good  as 
a  certificate,  that.  There  could  not  be  —  surely  there 
could  not  be  any  doubt? 

"  Well,  it's  tea-time."  Harry  woke  to  the  fact  that  his; 
father  was  fidgeting  about  the  room,  waiting  for  him 
to  go,  waiting  to  slip  the  key  of  the  safe  into  its  hiding- 
place. 

Tea  might  be  on  the  table,  but  the  hunger  of  which 
towards  meal-time  he  was  healthily  conscious  had  de- 
serted him.  He  ran  up  to  his  room.  Before  he  faced  the 
family  he  must  get  the  first  exuberance  of  his  joy  and  ex- 
citement under  control.  An  engineer  in  the  Navy!  He 
loved  the  sea,  the  cold,  relentless  sea ;  loved  to  see  a  good 
ship  plunging  through  heavy  seas,  loved  the  warm  engine- 


134  The  Rolling  Stone 

room.  If  he  could  have  these  things  and  the  one  thing 
more:  if  he  were  chosen,  chosen  to  serve! 

His  country!  A  something  big,  vague,  immensely  im- 
portant —  a  something  worthy  of  him,  of  the  utmost  he 
could  give! 

His  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  his  chest  heaving  with 
emotion.  "  England ! "  he  said  to  himself,  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  room.  One  little  body  could  not  contain 
so  vast  a  flood  of  feeling;  he  must  do  something  to  work 
it  off.  Food?  He  was  beyond  the  need  of  food.  He 
was  going  to  serve  his  country;  he  was  going  to  fight 
for  her,  to  fight  all  in,  to  give  all  he  had ! 

He  ran  lightly  down  the  stairs,  tiptoed  past  the  dining- 
room  door  —  for  he  could  not  face  the  family  yet  —  and 
let  himself  out  of  the  house.  For  the  last  few  months  he 
had  hired  a  room  at  the  "  George,"  a  room  in  which  he 
could  box.  Thither  came  the  hardiest  of  the  apprentices. 
They  came  once  and  Harry  gave  them  of  his  best ;  it  was 
not  often  that  they  came  again.  Only  a  few,  young  and 
earnest,  were  willing  to  go  on.  Old  Mountain  came,  gave 
terse  advice,  put  them  up  to  wrinkles,  treated  a  new-comer 
to  a  few  pats  and  a  dab  on  the  nose,  and  criticized  Harry's 
performances.  One  or  two  sporting  men  turned  up,  not 
as  a  regular  thing  but  on  occasion.  The  horsy,  doggy 
frequenters  of  the  saloon  bar  said  Harry  was  "  a  stiff 
little  chap  and  would  go  far."  He  thought  they  treated 
him  as  one  of  themselves.  .  .  . 

"  I  want  to  hurt  some  one,"  he  said,  turning  on  the 
bar  a  face  of  entreaty. 

A  man  named  Mallet  laughed.  "  I'm  not  on  tonight 
but  I  saw  Mountain  go  by  just  now.  He  had  a  likely  lad 
in  tow.  Go  and  plug  him." 

Polly  Martin,  handsome  Polly  Martin,  who  had  long 


The  Rolling  Stone  135 

since  recognized  in  Harry  a  humble  lover,  shed  him  a 
kindly  glance. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  tonight?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  a  good  old  world." 

"  Don't  let  them  maul  you  about." 

"  I'll  do  the  mauling." 

But  when,  an  hour  later,  he  looked  into  the  room  where 
the  men  were  playing  Crown  and  Anchor,  one  of  his  eyes 
was  what  is  known  as  "  black."  He  seemed  satisfied,  how- 
ever, and  at  peace;  and  when  Polly  spoke  of  remedies, 
only  grinned  with  "  A  bat  between  the  eyes  ?  What's  that 
to  an  admiral  of  the  Fleet?  " 

Happily  conscious  of  having  let  off  steam,  he  sauntered 
up  to  the  group  of  men  about  the  Crown  and  Anchor 
board.  Mallet,  whose  status  at  the  "  George  "  he  did  not 
quite  understand,  was  in  charge  and  was  enlivening  the 
proceedings  with  a  flow  of  patter. 

Harry  at  seventeen  was  earning  fifteen  shillings  a  week, 
and  although  of  this  twelve-and-six  went  to  his  father, 
he  had  ways  of  adding  to  his  income.  A  shilling  was 
burning  in  his  trousers  pocket  and  the  game  was  often 
kind  to  him.  He  would  order  a  schooner  of  beer  and  with 
the  rest  of  the  money  would  have  a  go. 

"  Come  on,  my  lucky  lads ! "  cried  Mallet,  rattling  the 
dice.  "  Who  says  a  punt  on  this  lucky  old  board?  Come 
here  in  wheelbarrows,  go  away  in  your  own  gigs.  Can't 
I  talk  some  of  you  into  money?  You  pick  'em  and  we'll 
pay  'em;  the  old  man's  got  the  stuff.  A  shilling  on  the 
hook,  eh?  Now,  who  says  a  bit  of  snow  on  the  four 
corners?  There's  four  aces  going  for  the  old  man.  Two 
shillings  half-way  is  a  good  bit.  Split  that  two  bob  —  a 
shilling  on  the  die  and  club.  What  about  a  little  snow 
on  the  spade  and  heart?  Who  says  a  little  punt  on  the 


136  The  Rolling  Stone 

old  shovel?  Come  on,  my  lucky  lads,  stack  it  on  thick 
and  heavy.  There's  the  heart  running  for  the  old  man. 
Nobody  say  a  little  punt  on  the  old  jam  tart?  Any  more 
before  we  lift  her?  Are  you  all  set?  "  He  paused  and 
looked  round.  Harry  had  staked  with  the  rest.  Forget- 
ting the  schooner  of  beer,  he  had  staked  his  shilling. 

"  Then  up  she  comes  ?  " 

With  an  eager  movement  they  closed  about  the  board. 

"  There's  the  name  and  the  game  and  the  die ;  the 
crown,  hook,  and  die  —  just  where  the  stinking  stuff  lies. 
Paid  there  five  bob,  paid  there.  All  paid,  well  paid,  and 
away  she  goes  again.  If  you  don't  like  our  shake  you 
can  shake  her  yourselves." 

Harry  had  been  lucky.  Conscious  now  of  hunger,  he 
was  able  to  order  some  bread  and  cheese  and,  yes,  the 
delayed  schooner  of  beer.  His  father  prided  himself  on 
never  having  tasted  alcohol.  He  often  spoke  of  it  to 
a  family  he  imagined  admiring  and  hoped  to  influence. 
But  Harry  saw  no  merit  in  abstention.  Better,  surely,  to 
try  a  thing  for  oneself.  Therefore,  on  this  day  of  opening 
prospects  he  ordered  beer. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  taken  it.  The  cool 
dark  brown  liquid,  bubbling  in  the  long  glass,  looked  at- 
tractive but  was  not  altogether  to  his  taste.  That  night, 
however,  he  was  both  hungry  and  thirsty. 

IV 

He  ate  and  drank  to  the  squeaking  of  a  merry  fiddle 
played  in  the  street  and,  after  paying  his  score,  sauntered 
out.  For  all  he  had  lived  a  crowded  hour,  the  evening 
was  not  far  advanced.  Harry  watched  the  children  foot- 
ing it  to  the  blind  man's  tune.  A  year  or  two  earlier 
and  he  would  have  joined  them.  Even  now  he  looked  at 


The  Rolling  Stone  137 

them    enviously ;    but    an    engineer    in    the    Navy  —  no. 

He  turned  to  go  home,  and,  instinctively,  he  chose  a 
roundabout  way.  Home  meant  a  little  woolly  talk  and 
then  bed ;  but  why  bed  when  the  sunset  sky  was  glorious 
with  colour?  He  would  go  by  way  of  the  canal,  and 
perhaps  the  adventure  he  never  sought  but  so  frequently 
found  would  be  awaiting  him  on  its  green  banks.  Others 
were  of  like  mind,  and  the  towing-path  was  populous  with 
youth.  Harry  took  the  glances  directed  at  him  by  pass- 
ing maidens  with  a  non-committal  eye.  He  saw  other 
lads  of  his  age  chaffing  the  girls,  strolling  with  them,  sit- 
ting in  the  dusk  of  the  trees  with  an  arm  about  a  trim 
waist,  and  he  was  envious  but  a  little  shy.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  every  girl  was  pretty,  the  colours  she  wore  a 
jov  after  masculine  blacks  and  greys  and  browns,  the 
glimpses  of  her  twinkling  ankles  under  discreet  skirts  a 
most  thrilling  matter.  He  wanted  to  answer  those  pro- 
vocative glances,  he  was  agog  to  answer  them,  yet  did 
not  quite  dare.  He  walked  by  the  grouDs,  therefore,  and 
the  girls  looked  after  him  longingly;  but  they  also  were, 
thrillingly,  a  little  shy. 

The  sky  was  reflected,  blue  and  gold  and  crimson,  on 
the  murky  water ;  a  brightly  painted  barge  broke  through 
the  mirrored  lights,  and  Harry,  absently  watching  the  gay 
disturbance,  thought  it  a  dull  show.  He  had  come  to  a 
lonely  stretch  of  the  canal,  and  to  the  right  of  him  lay 
brickfields,  the  torn  earth,  the  lines  of  newly  burnt  bricks, 
the  round,  strongly  odorous  kiln.  He  sniffed  in  the  smell 
appreciatively.  That  was  good,  a  rough  scent  and  a 
clean. 

"  Hullo,  darling !  " 

Not  a  soul  in  sight !  No  one  but  their  two  selves,  and 
Gipsy  Sal  had  the  full  figure  that  he  admired.  He  saw 
a  girl  not  much  older  than  himself  and  pretty,  with  a 


138  The  Rolling  Stone 

high  colour  and  big  smiling  eyes.  Instantly  he  felt  at 
home  with  her,  felt  a  pleasant  thrill  of  anticipation;  but 
he  must  show  her  that  he  was  a  man,  that  he  knew  the 
right  thing  to  say. 

"  What's  the  price  tonight?  " 

"  What  you  can  afford,  dear."  She  drew  a  step  nearer 
and  the  quality  of  her  smile  changed.  She  had  something 
to  sell  and  she  would  make  the  best  price  she  could.  Her 
full  breast  was  almost  touching  Harry,  her  full  lips  were 
pouting  up  at  him.  It  was  her  moment  and  she  must 
get  what  she  could.  "  Come,  brass  up,  my  lad,"  she  said 
heavily,  "  brass  up." 

Harry  drew  away.  "  You  can  have  what  I've  got," 
he  said,  and  handed  her  his  remaining  pieces  of  silver, 
"  but  I  don't  want  .  .  ." 

He  would  not  buy  what  he  felt,  suddenly  and  con- 
vincingly, must  be  a  gift.  He  could  not  buy  it.  His 
body  revolted  from  her,  from  her  lure,  her  easiness,  her 
promiscuity.  He  had  something  to  learn,  but  not  from 
her. 

"  Thank  you,  dearie,"  she  said,  and  slipped  the  money 
into  the  safest  place  she  knew,  her  stocking. 

"  Isn't  it  a  pretty  poor  trade?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  Depends  on  the  chaps, 
but  when  they're  free-handed  and  there's  plenty  of  lush 
I  don't  want  nothing  better." 

"  Don't  you?  I  should  have  thought  a  fine  woman  like 
you  would  have  wanted  a  fellow  to  work  for  her  and  a 
home  of  her  own." 

"  I  don't  see  myself  a  slommocky  drab  drudging  from 
morning  till  night  for  some  — "  and  she  swore.  "  No 
thanks,  not  for  this  child." 

"But  .  .  ." 

"I  say,  what's  the  gime?  "     As  he  had  given  her  what 


The  Rolling  Stone 


he  had  in  his  pocket,  she  realized  that  his  intentions 
were  friendly.  "  You're  soft,  ain't  you?  " 

"  I'm  thinking  of  you." 

«  I  —  never!" 

"  I  want  you  to  chuck  it." 

She  burst  into  a  loud  laugh.  "  Hi,  Bill  !  "  she  cried, 
and  a  big  man  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  bricks. 
"  There's  a  chap  'ere  what's  barmy." 

The  big  man  loomed  up  between  them  but  Harry  stood 
his  ground.  "Been  h'insultin'  of  you?  Holy  Moses! 
Why,  it's  the  Rough  'Un  !  "  His  truculence  vanished. 
"  Run  along  'ome,  kiddie.  I  ain't  goin'  to  try  and  cut 
the  bleedin'  'eart  out  of  you." 

He  took  the  woman  by  the  arm  and  they  went  up  the 
tow-path.  The  sound  of  their  rough  laughter  came  back 
to  Harry.  Had  he  made  a  fool  of  himself?  He  stood 
for  some  moments  nonplussed  and  wondering,  but  gradu- 
ally his  confidence  returned.  Conduct  such  as  Gipsy  Sal's 
brought  women  to  drink  and  to  the  growing  horrors  of 
the  descent  into  hell.  Not  his  business,  perhaps,  to  utter 
a  warning,  but  some  one  —  he  thought  vaguely  of  Arch- 
deacon Margerison,  his  father,  the  Lord  God  —  ought. 
How  otherwise  were  people  to  know?  At  any  rate,  he 
had  spoken  out  ;  perhaps  he  had  been  meant  to.  Perhaps 
that  was  why  he  had  had  strength  to  resist  temptation. 
Dwelling  on  the  look  in  Gipsy  Sal's  fine  eyes,  he  realized 
that  the  temptation  had  been  strong.  A  raw  boy,  inex- 
perienced, he  had  yet  been  able  to  resist.  He  went  home 
satisfied  with,  even  elated  by,  his  evening. 


"  Indoors  by  ten,"  was  the  rule  of  No.  14  Parkside, 
and   Harry   was    half   an   hour   late.     He    was    too   well 


140  The  Rolling  Stone 

pleased  with  himself,  however,  to  be  cautious.  As  he 
came  into  the  dining-room  Mr.  King  looked  up  from  the 
ledger  he  was  auditing. 

"  James  went  upstairs  half  an  hour  ago,"  he  said 
pointedly. 

The  character  of  the  household  had  known  a  change. 
Bet  was  at  boarding-school  and  James,  having  left  Cheeley, 
had  gone  into  the  works.  He  was  nineteen  —  a  slow, 
studious  lad  whose  engineering  designs  were  beginning  to 
attract  notice.  As  a  room-mate  Harry  found  him  as 
lively  as  a  snail  in  a  cranny. 

Mrs.  King  folded  the  nightdress  she  had  been  mending. 
"  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  For  a  walk." 

"  At  this  time  of  night !     Where?  " 

"  By  the  canal." 

"Alone?" 

"  I  met  people  I  knew."  Harry  had  a  whimsical  pic- 
ture of  Gipsy  Sal  in  his  mother's  house. 

Mrs.  King  got  up,  intending  to  lay  the  folded  work  with 
other  garments ;  but  as  she  passed  Harry  she  stopped 
abruptly.  "  You've  been  drinking." 

"  Drinking?  "  Harry  had  been  annoyed  by  his  moth- 
er's questions.  His  brows  came  together  in  an  obtuse 
angle  —  a  sign,  with  him,  of  anger ;  but  though  Mrs.  King 
saw,  she  did  not  care.  The  boy's  breath  smelt,  and  she 
would  not  have  it.  A  fine  thing  for  a  son  of  hers  to  come 
home  from  some  low  pot-house  and  lie  to  her  about  walks ! 

"  I've  had  a  can  of  beer.     No  harm  in  that." 

Mr.  King  closed  the  ledger  with  a  slam.  He  was  not 
angry,  but  the  cover  had  slipped  from  his  uncertain 
fingers.  No,  not  angry,  only  troubled.  Harry  was 
scarcely  seventeen  and  already,  in  spite  of  precept  and 


The  Rolling  Stone  141 

example,  was  beginning  to  drink.  The  father  felt  his  au- 
thority waning. 

"  Look  here,  my  lad,  I  can't  have  it ;  we're  teetotallers 
here." 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  a  teetotaller  because  you 
are." 

His  mother  broke  in.  "  You  begin  with  one  glass  and 
get  a  liking  for  the  stuff,  and  the  liking  grows  till  you 
can't  do  without  it.  Drink  is  the  curse  of  the  country." 

"  It  isn't  necessary  to  take  too  much." 

"  People  always  do.  You  may  think  you  are  strong, 
Henry,  but  you  will  find  drink  is  the  stronger.  Where 
did  you  buy  this  beer?" 

"  At  the  '  George,'  "  said  Harry  sullenly. 

"  And  how  did  you  get  that  black  eye?  " 

"  Boxing." 

"  So  that  is  how  you  spent  your  evening?  And  you 
told  us  you  had  been  for  a  walk.  A  pretty  walk  — 
brawling  in  a  pub." 

"  Once  and  for  all,  Henry,"  interposed  Mr.  King,  "  I 
won't  have  it.  As  long  as  you  are  in  this  house  you 
must  conform  to  the  rules  we  have  seen  fit  to  make.  There 
shall  be  no  drinking  here." 

"  All  this  bother,"  said  Harry  as  he  swung  out  of  the 
room,  "  about  a  can  of  beer !  "  Really,  his  parents  were 
impossible.  They  sat  at  home  and,  outside,  life  was  bub- 
bling and  fermenting  but  they  knew  nothing  of  it.  Their 
range  was  limited:  in  one  direction,  by  a  desk  in  an  office; 
in  the  other,  by  a  few  similarly  placed  neighbours ;  and 
finally,  by  their  church  and  chapel.  How  could  they  pro- 
nounce for  him?  And  what  had  he  done?  Less  than 
other  lads  of  his  age!  All  this  flapdoodle  about  one  pot 
of  beer!  He  laughed  bitterly  to  himself.  To  have  ac- 


142  The  Rolling  Stone 

cused  him  of  bad  habits  —  him !  Had  he  not  spent  the 
evening  trying  to  prevent  a  fellow-creature  rushing  head- 
long to  destruction,  reasoning  with  her,  pleading;  and 
that  —  he  remembered  Bill  —  at  some  risk  ?  How  little 
his  parents  understood  him !  Little  fussy  rules  and  all 
this  chin-wagging  when,  at  heart,  he  was  such  a  decent 
chap. 

He  went  upstairs,  past  the  rooms  in  which  the  rest  of 
the  family  slept,  past  the  window  in  the  bend,  the  window 
which  lighted  the  upper  landing.  The  weather  being  so 
warm,  this  window  had  been  left  open  —  in  fact,  for- 
gotten ;  and  Harry  turned  back  to  shut  it.  Although  his 
parents  treated  him  harshly,  he  would  not  bear  malice. 
He  would  shut  their  window  for  them.  Not  his  business, 
but  if  it  rained  in  the  night  the  stair-carpet  would  be 
damaged.  Perhaps,  when  they  realized  his  thought  for 
them  they  would  understand  him  a  little  better. 

The  night  was  starlit,  with  a  rising  moon,  and  Harry 
paused  to  look  out.  The  window  being  in  the  side  of 
the  house,  he  had  only  a  limited  view  of  the  road.  A  cat 
ran  across,  and  in  the  opposite  garden  another  called. 
Before  him  rose  the  dark  bulk  of  No.  13.  The  houses 
in  Parkside  were  detached,  and  a  wall  with  a  gravel  path 
on  either  side  separated  No.  13  from  No.  14.  The  privacy 
of  the  families  inhabiting  them,  however,  was  ensured  by 
an  absence  of  windows ;  only  one  broke  the  large  blank 
surface,  and  the  panes  of  that  were  muffed  and  starred 
and  coloured.  Harry,  glancing  across,  saw  that  the  stair- 
case window  of  No.  13  was  open.  How  careless  people 
were,  other  people!  But  no,  some  one  was  sitting  by  it. 
He  looked  more  sharply  and  saw,  etherealized  by  night, 
the  girl  to  whom  he  had  spoken  that  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Clarke,  tired  by  her  pleasuring,  had  returned  in 
an  irritable  mood.  Restless  because  so  tired,  she  had 


The  Rolling  Stone 148 

examined  Megan  Roberts's  work  and,  discovering  it  haid 
been  scamped,  had  waxed  wroth.  The  girl,  under  notice 
to  leave  at  the  end  of  the  month,  had  come  upstairs  to 
bed.  But  the  staircase  window  gave  on  the  house  in  which, 
presumably,  Harry  was  sleeping;  and  she  had  kneeled 
down  by  it  and  given  rein  to  unhappy  thought.  Her  mind 
was  still  obsessed  by  the  vision  which  had  been  vouchsafed 
her.  In  which  of  the  rooms  of  that  dark  moon-bathed 
house  was  he?  She  was  an  unlucky  maid.  If  she  had  to 
leave  Mrs.  Clarke  her  mother  would  be  displeased.  Mrs. 
Clarke  might  refuse  to  give  her  a  character,  and  what 
then?  She  wanted,  she  wanted  very  much,  she  wanted 
terribly  to  lean  her  head  on  the  wide  shoulder  she  had 
seen  that  day  and  pour  out  her  troubles.  She  wanted 
to  tell  him  all  about  it  and,  while  she  told,  to  feel  his  arm 
tightening  —  tightening  — 

A  tear,  large  and  glittering,  fell  on  the  window-sill, 
and  Harry  saw  it.  He  glanced  back  into  the  house,  savr 
his  parents  pass  into  their  room  and,  their  voices  blending 
in  a  complaint  that  "the  lad  was  difficult,  was  growing 
more  so,  but  discipline  must  be  maintained,"  close  the 
door.  Difficult? —  when  he  only  asked  for  a  little  natural 
liberty.  Discipline? — when  his  impulses  were  so  good, 
so  kindly,  when  all  he  wanted  was  to  help  those  in  any 
sort. of  trouble.  He  heard  the  key  turn  in  his  father's 
door ;  then  he  leant  out  and  called  —  he,  too.  He  called 
very  softly,  but  his  was  a  carrying  voice. 

Megan  had  seen  him,  had  thought  her  fortune  almost 
too  good  to  be  true.  "  I  am  so  miserable,"  she  sobbed, 
and  laid  her  head  on  her  hands. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  I  can't  —  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  Shall  I  come  over?  " 

'*  Oh  no !     It  does  not  matter." 


144  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  I'll  come." 

With  difficulty  she  held  the  leap  of  her  blood  in  check. 
If  he  should  come,  should  really  come  .  .  . 

"  You  could  not,"  she  said  mournfully,  and  added  a  sob. 

The  sob  echoed  through  the  boy's  lonely,  misjudged 
soul.  Here  was  a  fellow-sufferer.  Those  Clarkes ! 
What  had  they  been  doing  to  her? 

"Oh,  can't  I?"  He  studied  the  possibilities.  A 
water-butt,  the  pipe  that  fed  it,  the  space  between  the 
pipe  and  window-sill.  Could  he  do  it?  Once  his  fingers 
had  gripped  the  sill  he  would  be  able  to  pull  himself 
across,  but  a  bare  bit  of  wall  lay  between  pipe  and  window. 

"  Please  do  not  try.  You  could  not  do  it ;  I  am  sure 
you  could  not." 

He  felt  the  stimulus  of  her  doubt.  After  all,  though 
short,  he  had  a  long  reach.  The  climb  presented  diffi- 
culties, but  he  thought  he  could  manage  it. 

"  I'll  do  it." 

She  could  hardly  speak  for  joy  that  she  was  to  have 
her  will.  "  I  could  let  down  one  end  of  a  sheet,"  she 
said  tentatively,  "  and  fasten  the  other  to  the  banisters?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  no." 

"  It  would  save  you  the  climb." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  The  climb,"  he  answered  blithely, 
"  the  climb  is  what  I  want." 


Chapter  X 


ARCHDEACON  MARGERISON,  known  to  his 
intimates  as  "  the  Seal,"  because  he  resembled 
that  benign-faced  animal,  introduced  Harry 
to  the  big  boys'  class  at  the  Sunday-school.  His  large 
bland  presence  overshadowed  the  new  teacher,  and  until 
he  had  withdrawn  the  lads  hardly  realized  the  quality  of 
"  Mr.  Henry  King,  who  has  so  kindly  .  .  ." 

Harry  himself  did  not  leave  them  in  any  doubt. 

"  I  want  you  to  understand,"  he  said ;  and  first  one 
lad,  then  another,  realized  with  amazement  that  Harry 
was  no  stranger.  They  had  seen  him  playing  football, 
had  admired  his  methods.  "  I  want  you  to  understand," 
he  said,  "  that  I'm  master  here.  What  I  say  goes.  I'll 
fight  any  one  who  thinks  he  is  stronger  than  me;  in 
fact  — "  his  glance  swept  the  class  appraisingly,  "  I'll 
take  any  two  of  you  on  at  once." 

Like  wooden  images  the  boys  stared  before  them.  This 
was  the  Champion  Chucker,  the  Rough  'Un.  Strange  to 
find  him  in  Sunday-school,  a  little  saddening;  but  they 
were  not  altogether  convinced  that  he  was  dangerous. 
On  the  football  field,  yes,  but  this  was  different. 

"  Now  we'll  take  the  story  of  Samson,  the  strong  man. 
I'll  tell  it  to  you  and  you'll  try  and  remember  it,  and  the 
one  who  remembers  the  most  will  get  a  ticket  for  the 
circus  that's  coming  here  next  week." 

A  paper  pellet  whizzed  through  the  air;  the  thrower 
looked  more  unconscious  than  any  boy  in  the  room,  but 

145 


146  The  Rolling  Stone 

Harry  knew.  He  had  made,  he  had  thrown,  he  had  hidden 
the  throwing  of  paper  pellets.  His  glance  lit  on  the 
thrower.  "  You  boy  over  there  —  no,  the  one  with  the 
red  head  .  .  ." 

"Me,  sir?" 

"  You  go  outside  and  throw  pellets  in  the  street." 

"I  ain't  done  nothink,  sir."  But,  almost  immediately, 
Redhead  found  himself  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  door. 
The  others  were  impressed,  but  now  and  again  some  bolder 
spirit  stirred.  Miraculous  that  Harry  should  always 
drop  on  the  inciter  to  mischief.  Moreover,  his  methods 
were  drastic.  The  only  pleasure  the  class  had  that  after- 
noon lay  in  the  Bible  story.  The  Rough  'Un,  they  agreed, 
could  "  pitch  a  yarn." 

"  Next  Sunday,"  he  said  as  he  dismissed  them,  "  I'll 
tell  you  of  a  chap  who  wanted  to  knock  about  a  bit  before 
he  settled  down.  He  was  a  pretty  decent  chap  but  up 
against  it  with  his  mother.  The  old  lady  was  dead  nuts 
on  his  younger  brother  —  so  this  bloke,  Esau,  cleared 
out.  Now  then,  dismiss  and  go  quietly.  No  larking  and 
no  hanging  about  the  door ! " 

The  class  scattered  out  of  Harry's  life  and  mind  —  the 
latter  because  he  had  remembered  that  his  father,  who 
also  taught  in  the  Sunday-school,  was  to  the  Archdeacon 
a  sort  of  handy  man;  he  would  be  detained  doing  odd 
jobs  for  at  least  another  half-hour,  and  his  absence  might, 
by  an  active  and  intelligent  son,  be  turned  to  account. 

On  reaching  home  his  first  care  was  to  ascertain  his 
mother's  whereabouts.  The  Sunday  ritual  of  clean  and 
best  clothes,  of  cooking  and  carving  the  dinner,  had 
wearied  Mrs.  King.  When  the  last  plate  had  been  set 
on  the  rack,  the  last  spoon  slipped  into  the  basket,  she 
had  dropped  on  to  the  old  horsehair  sofa  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  She  was  alone  in  the  house,  in  the  quiet  of  the 


The  Rolling  Stone  147 

big  kitchen ;  and,  putting  up  her  feet,  leaning  her  head 
on  the  hard  black  bolster,  she  had  fallen  into  recuperative 
slumber.  Harry,  glancing  through  the  window,  saw  her, 
and,  reassured,  went  quietly  into  the  house.  He  had  been 
afraid  she  would  be  lying  down  in  her  room. 

Upstairs  the  rooms  were  in  daylight  order  —  the  white 
beds  neatly  made,  the  toilet-sets  in  correct  array,  the 
dressing-tables  meticulously  tidy.  Blinds  were  drawn  to 
keep  out  the  sun,  and  behind  them  stretched  the  white 
curtains  which  were  Mrs.  King's  pride.  Harry,  moving 
very  quietly,  went  into  his  parents'  bedroom.  He  meant 
to  find  the  key  of  the  safe,  and  he  thought  he  knew  where 
to  look.  The  key  of  the  tiny  medicine-cupboard  was 
kept  in  his  mother's  trinket-box.  He  left  the  box  open, 
in  case  a  retreat  at  short  notice  should  become  necessary. 
In  the  medicine-chest  a  row  of  innocent  bottles  met  his 
gaze,  the  bulge  of  Dr.  Gregory,  the  bluish  transparency 
of  glycerine,  the  round  wooden  box  with  the  coloured 
wrapper  in  which  were  pills.  No  sign  of  a  key.  But 
stay;  what  was  that  sticking  up  at  the  back  of  Beecham? 
Was  it  the  end  of  a  forked  tin  label?  Harry's  groping 
hand  closed  on  metal.  His  father  kept  the  key  behind 
the  bottles.  He  had  calculated  on  their  being  seldom 
taken  down,  on  the  fact  that  dusting  tidying  fingers 
would  not  come  that  way. 

Harry's  progress  from  cupboard  to  safe  was  executed 
with  tiptoe  caution.  He  had  found  that  with  which  his 
mind  at  many  an  odd  moment  had  been  busy;  and  he 
was  about  to  probe  the  secrets  of  that  society  to  which 
his  father  must  belong.  He  wondered  whether  it  was  in 
any  way  similar  to  his. 

The  key  fitted  and  the  heavy  door  swung  open,  dis- 
closing an  iron  shelf,  which  divided  the  interior  into 
equal  halves.  The  lower  was  again  divided  by  an  upright, 


148  The  Rolling  Stone 

and  the  whole  was  painted  a  green  so  pale  it  was  almost 
white. 

The  door  once  open,  Harry  paused  before  investigating 
the  sacred  contents,  paused  to  listen  for  a  step.  He  had 
hurried  home  ahead  of  his  father,  ahead  of  his  sisters, 
but  they  were  following.  He  went  on  to  the  landing  and 
leaned  over  the  banisters.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  Sunday 
quiet.  Except  for  the  sleeper  on  the  kitchen  sofa  the 
house  was  empty. 

"  I've  got  five,  perhaps  ten  minutes,"  he  thought,  "  but 
no  more."  At  first  glance  the  appearance  of  the  safe 
struck  him  as  disappointing.  On  the  upper  shelf  lay 
ledgers,  bank-books,  account-books ;  below,  in  one  com- 
partment, was  a  black-and-gold  cash-box;  the  other  ap- 
peared to  hold  nothing  but  papers.  The  books  were  con- 
nected with  business  —  the  business  of  running  the  family, 
of  paying  bills,  of  putting  by  for  a  rainy  day ;  the  cash- 
box  was  equally  uninteresting;  and  as  for  the  old  pa- 
pers —  well,  he  would  turn  them  over,  there  might  be 
something  .  .  . 

In  front  and  on  top  lay  a  long  envelope  marked  "  My 
Will  " —  business  again !  Harry  put  it  on  one  side.  The 
articles  must  be  replaced  in  the  order  in  which  they  had 
been  found.  His  father  must  not  suspect  that  any  one 
had  been  at  the  safe. 

Under  the  will  lay  a  bundle  of  letters  tied  with  pink 
tape  and  labelled  "  Letters  from  Sophia."  Sophia  was 
Harry's  mother,  and  he  could  not  suppose  anything  she 
had  written  could  be  interesting.  They  were  probably, 
he  thought,  just  lovey-dovey  letters,  the  usual  sort  of 
thing.  He  put  them  on  the  carpet,  by  the  will,  and  looked 
again.  Nothing  under  the  packet  of  letters  —  yes,  a 
single  thin,  oblong  envelope.  Taking  it  up,  he  found  it 
was  addressed,  in  an  attractive  curly  writing,  to  his  father, 


The  Rolling  Stone 149 

and  that,  across  it,  in  that  father's  hand,  was,  "  Her  last 
letter  to  me."  The  envelope  was  stiff,  as  if  it  contained 
some  sort  of  card,  and  Harry  felt  a  wakening  interest. 
Who  was  this  "  her  "?  Not  his  mother;  her  writing  was 
small  and  pointed.  The  envelope  was  open,  worn  indeed 
by  touch  and  time,  so  worn  that  the  edge  was  a  little 
broken.  Harry  slipped  out  a  sheet  of  paper  on  which 
were  a  few  words  in  the  same  pretty  writing  —  an  as- 
surance that  she  was  getting  better,  that  she  hoped  to 
see  her  "  dear  lad  "  again  on  the  morrow  but  was  too 
tired  to  write  any  more ;  and  the  signature,  "  Always  your 
loving  -T-  Marie." 

Folded  in  the  sheet  was  an  old  carte-de-visite,  a  sweet 
smiling  young  girl,  in  full  velvet  skirt  and  wide  sleeves. 
Across  the  quarter  of  a  century  since  she  had  been  laid 
to  rest  she  smiled  at  the  son  of  her  "  dear  lad,"  and  Harry, 
looking  at  her,  felt  that  he  too  could  have  loved  her,  felt 
also  a  little  ashamed.  Not  for  the  world  now  would  he 
have  his  father  know  that  he  had  been  at  the  safe.  He 
put  the  clear,  old-fashioned  photograph  back  into  the 
letter.  Time  was  flying  and  the  square  pale  green  com- 
partment still  held  a  number  of  objects,  each  of  which 
must  be  taken  out  and  examined  before  with  a  satisfied 
mind  he  could  restore  the  key  to  Gregory  and  Beecham. 
So  far  there  had  been  secrets  indeed,  but  no  sign  of 
any  society,  not  even  so  much  as  a  masonic  jewel.  He 
fancied,  however,  that  behind  will  and  letters  he  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  something  more  promising,  a  gleam, 
a  glitter.  He  pulled  it  out,  and  grinned  to  see  that  he 
had  found  a  jackdaw-hoard  of  crystals.  He  had  seen 
them  before,  could  remember  finding  them  in  a  Derbyshire 
cave,  remembered  too  his  father's  interest.  Mr.  King, 
admiring  the  prisms,  finding  them  incomprehensible,  had 
slyly  appropriated  them,  had  hidden  them  here.  To  him 


150 The  Rolling  Stone 

they  had  been  a  sort  of  treasure.  Harry,  by  the  glitter 
of  these  crystals,  saw  his  father  as  boyish,  as  very  little 
his  senior.  Mr.  King  was  still  young;  he  had  grown  up 
and  married  and  become  a  father,  but  he  was  still  only 
a  boy. 

"  Is  that  all?  "  Harry  was  groping  at  the  back  of  the 
safe.  He  had  fancied  he  could  discern  something  of 
darker  colour,  a  thin  oblong.  He  pulled  out  a  small  blue 
book. 

"  The  Masterpiece,"  by  Aristotle.  He  had  never  heard 
of  it.  Opening  it  haphazard,  he  read  a  sentence,  another. 
Queer  stuff  this,  made  you  hot  to  read  it.  Yet  it  was 
not  the  sort  of  book  that  you  wanted  to  skip ;  by  no 
means.  You  would  read  every  word,  but  you  would  deny 
that  you  had  done  so.  Once  more,  but  this  time  with 
finger  between  the  pages  of  the  blue  book,  Harry  listened 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  Faint  sounds  reached  him. 
His  mother  was  awake,  was  laying  the  tea.  The  others 
would  not  be  long.  He  had  but  a  few  moments  more. 

No  wonder  his  father  had  hidden  the  book !  Such  mat- 
ters were  never  spoken  of,  never  alluded  to,  in  the  family. 
As  far  as  could  be  gathered  from  conversation,  the  young 
Kings  were  neuters  and  the  whole  six  had  been  found  under 
bushes  in  the  vegetable-garden.  The  fact  of  sex  was 
not  concealed  so  much  as  ignored.  In  spite  of  the  amaz- 
ing candour  of  chickens  and  such-like,  it  did  not  exist. 

Aristotle's  treatise  was  a  revelation  to  Harry.  He 
gulped  it  with  a  goggling  mind,  very  hot,  rather  uncom- 
fortable, but  anxious  to  read  as  much  as  possible. 

Below,  the  sounds  increased  in  number,  in  volume:  um- 
brella-ferules hit  the  tin  lining  of  the  hat-stand,  heels 
rang  on  the  tiles,  voices  proclaimed  an  English  thank- 
fulness that  Sunday  —  that  day  of  services  and  best 
clothes  and  the  big  midday  dinner  —  was  nearly  at  an  end. 


The  Rolling  Stone 151 

Harry  returning  each  article  to  its  place  in  the  safe, 
locked  it  and  hid  the  key.  Aristotle's  treatise  was  an 
orange  which  had  not  yet  been  squeezed  of  more  than  half 
its  juice.  But  there  would  be  other  Sundays  during  which 
his  innocent  parent  would  be  taking  a  Bible  class,  other 
opportunities.  .  .  . 

It  was,  Harry  thought,  a  disgusting  book,  and  life 
was  disgusting,  and  he  couldn't  believe  these  things  were 
true,  yet.  .  .  . 

He  did  not  want  to  bother  with  such  matters ;  they  were 
dirty. 

There  was  Megan,  of  course,  but  that  was  different  — 
moonlight  and  the  dark  and  some  one  warm  and  loving, 
some  one  who  understood  him,  who  adored  him,  and  who 
was  soft,  so  soft.  .  .  . 

"  The  sinful  lusts  of  the  flesh." 

The  familiar  phrase  floated  up  through  some  well  of 
memory  but  Harry  thrust  it  away.  He  could  not  see 
that  it  applied  to  him.  Neither  did  it  apply  to  the  sub- 
jects treated  frankly  in  Aristotle's  treatise.  It  must, 
he  thought,  apply  to  matters  of  which  he  was  still  in 
ignorance. 

He  let  off  steam  by  a  ferocious  brushing  of  his  hair. 
The  feel  of  the  hard  bristles  on  his  thick  black  locks  and 
on  his  scalp  was  refreshing.  With  each  stroke  the  strange 
book  was  pushed  farther  away.  When  he  laid  down  the 
brush  his  cheeks  were  no  longer  heated.  He  had  begun 
to  think  of  tea  —  was  wondering,  indeed,  whether  the  cake 
his  mother  always  made  for  Sunday  would  be  big  enough 
to  go  round  twice. 

When  he  reached  the  dining-room  he  found  the  others 
already  seated. 

"What  luck  with  the  big  boys,  Henry?" 

"  Lambs." 


152  The  Rolling  Stone 

Mr.  King  smiled  over  a  fuller  knowledge  of  the  class. 
"  Ah,  they  let  you  down  lightly  today,  but  you  wait  a 
bit.  I  suppose  you  will  take  them  again?  "  He  thought 
to  do  so  might  have  a  steadying  influence  on  the  lad. 
Harry  was  growing  up,  growing  into  a  manhood  very 
different  from  that  of  his  father.  Mr.  King  wished  that 
he  were  not  such  a  busy  man,  that  he  could  see  more  of 
his  children,  could  join  in  their  pursuits.  He  wondered 
whether  the  freedom  allowed  them  by  his  preoccupation 
with  money-getting  was  good  for  them,  and  he  looked  with 
doubt  on  the  bright  eyes  and  vigorous  bodies  that  had 
been  born  to  him. 

"  Doesn't  that  depend  on  whether  I  get  into  the 
Navy?" 

The  word  Navy  thrilled  Mr.  King.  One  son  in  the 
Civil  Service,  another  an  officer  —  better  that  than  being 
a  clerk  in  a  railway  office! 

"  How  are  you  going  to  Bristol?  " 

"  I'll  cycle  —  save  the  train  fare." 

"  Good ! "  Mr.  King  smiled  to  see  his  admonitions 
bearing  fruit.  His  doubting  fancies  took  a  happier  turn. 
After  all,  they  were  a  satisfactory  group  of  young  people ; 
while  as  for  their  mother,  what  a  comely,  wholesome 
woman  she  was !  He  had  much  for  which  to  be  thankful, 
and  thankful  he  was.  About  him  surged  the  placid  Sun- 
day talk,  but  Mr.  King  .was  not  listening.  His  spirit 
was  being  lifted  in  thanksgiving,  the  thanksgiving  of  a 
sincere  piety. 

And  Harry,  glancing  furtively  at  his  father,  was  think- 
ing of  — "  Marie !  " 

II 

When  he  reached  Bristol  Harry  was  told  that  the 
examination  would  take  place  the  following  day,  on  board 


The  Rolling  Stone 153 

the  Victory.  He  had  often  sailed  and  tacked  about  the 
ship  as  she  lay  in  her  berthing,  but  never  with  any 
thought  that  it  would  some  day  be  his  duty  to  go  aboard. 
She  was  visible  from  the  windows  of  his  uncle's  house, 
a  prominent  and,  he  thought,  beautiful  bit  of  the  fore- 
ground. For  a  long  time  that  evening  he  sat  looking 
at  her  and  dreaming. 

Stories  of  adventure,  of  dare-devil  escapades,  of  resul- 
tant honour,  flitted  through  his  mind.  He  recalled  the 
deed  by  which  the  first  Victoria  Cross  had  been  won. 
Midshipman  Lucas  had  picked  up  a  shell  that  threatened 
a  group  of  superior  officers  and,  the  fuse  still  burning, 
thrown  it  into  the  sea.  A  small  thing  to  do.  A  little 
courage,  a  little  address,  no  more. 

If  the  naval  surgeon  would  pass  him,  Harry  King,  he 
would  do  his  best  —  oh,  his  humble,  faithful  best  —  to  be 
worthy.  His  heart  was  so  big  in  his  body  that  the  dream 
changed  into  a  glamorous  mist. 

When  he  reached  the  Victory  he  was  taken  to  an  empty 
cabin  and  told  to  strip.  As  the  minutes  accumulated 
he  regretted  the  promptitude  of  his  obedience.  A  chilly 
wind  was  blowing,  and  Harry,  stark  as  he  came  from  his 
mother,  grew  gradually  indignant.  He  was  in  a  draught, 
and  draughts  were  bad  for  you;  he  would  catch  cold. 
Why  did  not  somebody  come? 

A  sound  of  approaching  voices  reached  him  and  a 
tanned,  brown-bearded  man  came  briskly  into  the  cabin. 
He  looked  from  Harry  to  the  open  port-hole.  "  Don't 
you  find  this  a  bit  chilly?" 

Harry  liked  the  twinkling  eyes  and  the  trim  air  of 
the  new-comer.  "  Oh,  it's  nothing,"  he  said ;  "  a  little 
fresh  air  don't  hurt."  Nevertheless  he  shut  the  port- 
hole. 

"  Well,"   said   the    surgeon,   surveying   him,    "  it   does 


154  The  Rolling  Stone 

not  look  as  if  there  was  much  amiss  with  you,"  and  he 
put  a  few  questions. 

In  his  answers  Harry  demonstrated  the  perfect  fitness 
of  his  body,  the  wholesome  nature  of  his  upbringing; 
and,  as  each  item  was  established,  the  surgeon  nodded 
approvingly.  This  was  the  sort  of  lad  the  Navy  needed. 

"  And  in  the  engineering  shops  you've  done  the  work 
of  a  smith?  I  suppose  that  accounts  for  this  forearm." 

The  girth  of  the  forearm  in  question  was  fourteen 
inches. 

"  Not  altogether,"  said  Harry,  believing  what  he  said. 
"  I  do  what  I  can  myself,  dumb-bells,  you  know,  and 
gym,  and  boxing." 

"You  can  box?" 

"  A  bit.  Bill  Mountain,  the  chap  who  put  the  Water- 
loo Kid  to  sleep,  taught  me." 

"  Ah,  we've  a  fellow  here  who  will  be  glad  to  meet  you 
—  Kennedy,"  and  Harry  slipped  the  name  into  a  pigeon- 
hole of  memory.  The  new  life  showed  a  widening  pros- 
pect. To  fight  for  King  and  country  —  ay,  and  for 
Harry  King.  To  sail  the  world  over,  to  sail  with  a  repu- 
tation, to  find  a  fight  awaiting  him  in  every  port.  Let 
them  trot  out  Kennedy  —  the  sooner  the  better ! 

"  We  must  get  to  work."  Lannigan  had  satisfied  him- 
self that  Harry  was,  as  he  put  it  in  his  Irish  mind,  "  a 
broth  of  a  bhoy,"  and  that  he  would  be  a  credit  to  the 
service.  He  hoped  the  examination  would  prove  him  to 
be  physically  fit.  "  We'll  test  your  sight  " —  he  set  to 
work ;  "  fair  —  a  bit  astigmatic,  a  bit  myopic  —  not 
enough  to  matter.  Your  teeth  —  some  time  since  you 
saw  a  dentist,  eh?  Two  of  the  molars  are  pretty  badly 
decayed.  .  .  ." 

One  after  another  he  pointed  out  tiny  flaws  in  what 
he  saw  as  a  splendid  young  body,  a  body  finer  than  any 


The  Rolling  Stone 155 

he  could  call  to  mind.  Slowly,  inexorably,  he  damped 
the  fires  of  Harry's  pride  in  his  make-up,  and  it  was  to 
the  lad  as  if  the  port-hole  were  still  open,  the  breeze  still 
playing  on  his  naked  skin. 

"  But,"  Lannigan  smiled  at  him  reassuringly,  "  you 
could  not  have  done  all  you  have  if  you  weren't  all  right 
in  what  really  matters." 

Harry's   hopes    revived.     "  What  matters,   then?" 

"  Oh,  heart  and  lungs,  that  sort  of  thing." 

An  echo  from  the  past  troubled  the  waters  of  Harry's 
mind,  but  he  would  not  heed.  As  the  surgeon  had  said, 
a  fellow  cannot  use  hundred-pound  dumb-bells,  cannot 
swing  locomotive  break-blocks  from  his  teeth,  cannot  play 
back  for  the  Rangers,  unless  he  is  physically  fit.  The 
surgeon  applied  his  stethoscope  to  the  finely  arching  chest. 
He  listened  and  then  he  looked  at  Harry,  at  Harry  gazing 
trustfully  out  to  sea. 

"Have  you  had  rheumatic  fever?"  he  asked. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  chap." 

"  Ah,  yes." 

"  A  long  time  ago."  He  must  impress  on  this  man,  who 
a  moment  before  had  been  twinkling  at  him  reassuringly, 
that  the  illness  was  well  over,  that  he  had  recovered  from 
it  to  a  state  of  absolute  health  —  to  more  than  that,  to 
years  of  accumulated  strength  and  well-being. 

"  Mitral  stenosis,"  said  the  surgeon,  grown,  Harry 
thought,  unaccountably  grave.  "  Stenosis  with  some  hy- 
pertrophy." 

"  What  is  that  ? "  The  atmosphere  seemed  to  have 
thickened.  Harry's  throat  was  constricted,  he  found  a 
difficulty  in  uttering;  he  found  himself  afraid,  horribly 
afraid,  of  what  Lannigan  was  about  to  say. 

"  It  is  what  rheumatic  fever  often  leaves." 

"  It  —  it  can  be  cured  —  surely  ?  " 


156 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  You'll  have  it  till  the  end  of  your  days,  you'll  take 
it  with  you." 

Harry  turned  to  the  heap  of  his  clothes,  took  up  one 
garment,  then  another. 

"Have  I  — failed?" 

"I'm   sorry." 

Mechanically  he  was  slipping  his  limbs  into  the  fa- 
miliar openings.  "  I  am  so  strong,"  he  said  dully,  yet 
with  an  eye  to  the  effect  of  his  words.  Surely  that  fore- 
arm, that  chest,  if  the  surgeon  could  be  brought  to  con- 
sider them,  must  make  a  difference!  The  strongest  lad 
for  his  age  in  the  railway  town,  the  strongest,  whatever 
their  age,  of  the  apprentices.  It  must  —  oh,  it  must 
count ! 

Lannigan  was  writing  diligently ;  he  did  not  look  up. 
He  could  not  give  the  youth  hope,  for  there  was  none  to 
give.  With  such  a  heart  Harry  could  not  be  passed  for 
the  Navy. 

Harry,  seeing  his  plea  had  failed,  wondered  desperately 
whether  he  himself  might  not  be  able  to  find  the  way 
out.  He  had  always  been  considered  resourceful.  Now, 
if  ever,  was  the  time  to  prove  the  truth  of  that  assump- 
tion. 

"What  is  mitral  —  mitral  .   .   ." 

"Mitral  stenosis?"  Lannigan  blotted  the  paper  he 
had  been  filling  in.  "  It  is  the  narrowing  of  the  mitral 
valve  of  the  heart  so  that  the  blood  has  a  difficulty  in 
passing  from  the  left  auricle  to  the  left  ventricle." 

"  But  how  does  that  .   .  ." 

"  It  is  a  diseased  condition  and  unfits  a  man  for  any 
strenuous  work." 

"  But  I  do  strenuous  work ;  I  do  it  every  day,  all  day." 

"  And  at  any  moment  the  hypertrophy  may  fail. 
That  " —  he  spoke  with  finality  — "  that  is  what  dishes 


The  Rolling  Stone  157 

you."  Folding  the  paper,  he  gave  it  to  Harry,  who  took 
it  silently  and  as  silently  went  back  to  the  ship-chandler's 
shop. 

"What  news?"  said  Robert  Hall. 

But  Harry   could  not  yet  utter  the  dire  intelligence. 

"They'll  let  me  know,"  he  said.  He  met  the  older 
man's  kindly  gaze,  and  his  eyes  were  bright  as  ever,  bright 
and  hard.  Hall  saw  that  something  had  gone  wrong,  saw 
too  that  explanations  were  as  yet  impossible  —  that  it 
would  be  well,  in  fact,  to  speed  the  parting  guest. 

"  If  I  start  now,"  said  Harry,  "  I  shall  get  home  to- 
night. I  don't  want  to  take  another  day  off  from  the 
works." 

Ill 

He  could  not  remember  a  single  incident  of  that  forty- 
five  mile  ride.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  passing 
through  blackness  and  heaviness  and  mist,  that  he  had 
no  body,  was  only  a  struggling,  unhappy  spirit.  His  one 
wish  was  to  get  home.  He  felt  that  some  comfort  awaited 
him  under  the  familiar  roof,  and  he  rode  blindly  forward 
in  search  of  it. 

When  he  arrived  the  hour  was  late  and  only  Mr.  King 
was  up.  His  mother's  absence  stirred  in  Harry  a  vague 
sense  of  relief ;  she  never  understood,  but  the  governor  — • 
yes,  the  governor  was  different. 

"  Well?  "  said  Mr.  King,  and  Harry  gave  him  the  paper. 

To  him,  standing  in  a  stupor  of  dull  misery,  it  seemed 
a  long,  dreary  while  before  his  father,  who  had  carried 
the  paper  nearer  to  the  one  gas-jet  still  alight,  turned. 

"What's  mitral  stenosis?" 

Harry  tried  to  remember  what  the  surgeon  had  told 
him.  Strange  words  and  incomprehensible.  All  he  had 
grasped  was  that  they  were  damning.  "  Dunno." 


158 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Don't  know?  "  said  his  father  irritably.  "  You  must 
know.  I  suppose  you  asked  him?  " 

Harry  was  vaguely  conscious  of  this  irritation  as  a 
sort  of  sympathy.  His  father  was  disappointed,  sorry 
for  him,  upset.  "  I  did,  and  he  —  'he  paused  again, 
trying  to  find  the  words  that  were  eluding  him.  "  I  can't 
remember  —  it  was  something  about  an  auricle.  Well," 
with  a  sudden  burst,  "  he  said  two  of  my  teeth  were  de- 
cayed. .  .  ." 

That  statement,  repeated  to  the  family,  was  respon- 
sible for  the  legend  of  Harry's  failure.  He  had  been 
refused  because  two  of  his  teeth  were  imperfect !  That 
was  the  way  the  authorities  did  things.  A  worthy  lad 
was  turned  down  because  of  a  trifling  defect  any  two- 
penny-ha'penny dentist  could  have  remedied.  Hardly  en- 
couraging to  smart  young  fellows.  Yet  the  Service  was  in 
need  of  such.  The  King  family  came  to  look  on  Harry's 
rejection  as  mere  short-sighted  policy  on  the  part  of  the 
Admiralty.  Eventually  they  spoke  of  it  with  that  con- 
temptuous tolerance  which  the  general  public  feels  for 
those  in  high  places.  But  at  first  it  was  a  blow ;  it  hurt 
their  pride,  it  stung. 

"  Never  heard  of  such  nonsense,"  said  Mr.  King  angrily, 
and  in  his  wrath  tore  the  offending  paper  across  and 
crumpled  it  and  flung  it  into  the  grate.  If  only  he  could 
have  dealt  similarly  with  those  who  had  judged,  misjudged, 
his  boy !  "  At  any  rate,  it  is  not  your  fault.  Well,"  a 
pause,  "  I  suppose  we  had  better  go  to  bed." 

The  son  preceded  his  father  up  the  stairs,  and  their 
feet  were  heavy  on  the  treads.  Harry,  when  he  reached 
his  room,  turned  up  the  light  and  glanced  at  his  brother. 
He  was  thankful  to  find  that  James  was  asleep,  that  he 
had  the  place  to  himself.  Hurriedly  he  flung  off  his 
clothes  and  slipped  into  bed. 


The  Rolling  Stone  159 

He  had  been  able  to  postpone  the  moment  of  full  reali- 
zation. No  sooner  was  he  between  the  sheets,  however, 
than  misery  closed  in  upon  him,  carrying  him  from  deep 
to  blacker  deep,  carrying  him  to  such  bitter  profundities 
he  felt  that  that  poor  heart  of  his  must  burst. 

He  was  no  good,  a  crock;  his  strength  had  been  as 
nothing,  had  not  won  him  a  moment's  consideration,  and 
it  was  to  his  strength  that  he  had  trusted.  They  had 
taken  from  him  the  plank  on  which  he  stood ;  they  had 
flung  him  down,  down.  ...  A  whole  body  and  the  powers 
of  that  body,  but  his  body  was  damaged  beyond  repair  — 
damaged  by  his  folly,  the  folly  of  an  innocent  child,  the 
folly  of  long  ago.  His  heart  would  never  be  as  the  heart 
of  other  men.  He  must  not  hope  to  realize  his  dreams. 

They  did  not  consider  him  man  enough  for  the  Navy. 

They  knew. 

What  was  the  use  of  a  cracked  vessel  that  at  any  mo- 
ment might  fall  apart?  Better  come  to  an  end  than  live 
like  fellows  he  had  seen  —  the  fellows  who  did  not  play 
games  because  they  couldn't,  who  looked  on.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  Harry  as  if  he  la.y  for  hours,  abject  and 
despairing,  as  if  his  suffering  only  grew  with  time,  as  if 
it  grew  until  it  was  unendurable  and  he  cried  out  under 
it,  cried  out  for  help. 

And  help  came. 

At  the  moment  of  utmost  agony  the  help  came. 

The  weight  of  the  world  was  lifted  from  him  and  his 
spirit  floated  up  through  ever-lessening  darkness  into  light, 
and  presently  he  was  not  in  the  light  but  of  it.  He  was 
reconciled  to  life,  and  more  than  reconciled,  for  he  had 
reached  the  source  of  it,  become  one  with  it.  The  change 
had  come  like  the  opening  under  intense  pressure  of  a 
safety-valve.  Harry  passed  in  a  moment  from  despair  to 
ecstasy. 


160  The  Rolling  Stone 

One  with  air  and  light,  part  of  the  sunlit  universe,  in 
communion  with  the  ultimate.  His  spirit  expanded.  He 
was  not  to  die.  He  was  reserved  for  some  unknown  great- 
ness —  Chosen ! 

The  recollection  that  he  had  not  been  considered  man 
enough  for  the  Navy,  that  he  was  a  cracked  vessel,  was 
swept  out  of  his  mind.  God  had  manifested  Himself:  not 
his  father's,  not  his  mother's  God,  but  the  Being  he  had 
always  known  was  at  the  back  of  things.  Harry  be- 
lieved, with  utter  faith,  that  he  had  been  given  a  strength 
beyond  his  own;  believed  that,  out  of  the  multitudes  of 
the  earth,  he  had  been  chosen.  He  was  uplifted,  divinely 
glad,  miraculously  reconciled. 

But  ecstasy,  the  golden  moment,  the  absolute  light, 
passes,  fades.  It  was  as  if  the  sun  had  set,  but  as  if 
the  sky  were  still  bright,  still  glorious  with  colour. 
Harry's  happiness  persisted,  but  it  was  changed  into  the 
calm  of  beatitude.  He  lay  content,  a  boat  rocking  in  shal- 
low waters  after  the  amazing  adventure  of  the  deep  —  a 
boat  which  was  to  strand,  ultimately,  on  the  shores  of 
sleep. 

IV 

Primed  by  their  father,  the  Kings  were  careful  not  to 
ask  Harry  questions,  not  to  speak  of  his  visit  to  Bristol. 
They  could  not  know  that  an  after-experience  had 
armoured  him  against  kindly  indiscretion. 

Moreover,  he  had  awakened  to  a  mood  of  defiant  plan- 
ning. The  Navy  would  not  have  him?  He  was  to  be 
prevented  from  serving  his  country?  They  should  see. 

Harry  swinging  break-blocks  —  two  tied  together  with 
a  handkerchief  and  held  by  his  teeth  —  had  attracted  the 
attention  of  Daly,  the  shop  foreman,  a  man  of  considerable 
personality.  This  man  held  strong  opinions  as  to  his 


The  Rolling  Stone 161 

and  other  people's  duty  to  the  State,  and  to  him  Harry 
went. 

"  You're  a  volunteer,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Yes.     What  do  you  want?  " 

"  I'd  like  to  join." 

"  Very  well,  King.  Every  lad  ought  to  serve  his  coun- 
try in  some  way  or  other.  Come  down  to  the  hall  this 
evening." 

"  Can  you  keep  it  quiet  till  I'm  in?  The  *  old  man ' 
might  cut  up  rough." 

Mr.  King  and  Mr.  King's  opinions  were  well  known  in 
the  works.  Daly,  who  had  no  sons,  would  have  given  a 
great  deal  for  a  boy  like  Harry.  He  grudged  him  to  the 
father  who  not  only  failed  to  admire  his  gifts,  but  who, 
ambitious  for  social  consideration,  regarded  them 
doubtingly. 

"  We'll  get  you  over  that  all  right.  If  you  come  down 
Tuesday  night  I'll  have  a  uniform  ready  for  you.  The 
fit  don't  matter,  we  can  fix  that  afterwards.  Once  you 
are  sworn  in,  your  father  can't  do  anything." 


Mrs.  King  was  busy  in  the  little  square  box  known  as 
the  morning-room,  or  Mr.  King's  study,  cutting  out 
nightgowns  for  the  chapel  maternity-bags.  From  time 
to  time  her  eyes  rested  on  a  little  pile  of  red  and  black 
books  which  the  spreading  white  material  had  pushed 
aside.  Her  thoughts,  as  she  measured  and  cut  and  pinned, 
were  occupied  with  them.  They  were  the  account  books 
of  the  clothing  club,  and  they  had  refused  to  balance. 
Obstinately,  as  if  they  were  living  and  perverse  entities, 
they  had  set  themselves  up  against  her.  Again  and  again 
she  had  gone  over  the  items,  had  reckoned  the  columns, 


162  The  Rolling  Stone 

and  every  time  she  had  been  faced  with  a  deficit.  She 
acknowledged  herself  a  poor  hand  at  accounts.  She  had 
been  so  pleased  when  the  circuit  steward  had  asked  her  to 
be  the  treasurer  of  the  clothing  club.  She  had  forgotten 
that  figures  were  her  bane,  that  they  had  a  way  of  leaping 
together  and  entangling  themselves  and,  when  she  dealt 
with  them,  of  growing  more  and  more  entangled,  until  the 
muddle  was  a  hard  and  unyielding  knot. 

It  was  of  such  a  knot  that  she  was  thinking.  Two 
pounds  three  shillings  and  sixpence!  She  had  had  the 
money,  she  supposed  that  she  had  spent  it;  but  she  had 
nothing  to  show  for  it  —  not  a  button,  not  even  a  bill. 
One  thing  only  was  certain:  the  money  was  gone. 

It  was  gone  and  questions  were  being  asked.  That 
afternoon  Mrs.  Cobb,  spiteful  cat,  had  insinuated  that 
the  treasurer  had  been  inexcusably  careless.  Careless ! 
If  that  were  all!  But  Miranda  Cobb  had  looked  at  her 
oddly  and  so  had  Miss  Dent.  They  thought  .  .  . 

The  poor  woman  shrank  from  the  thought,  shrank  as 
ashamedly  as  if  she  had  been  guilty.  She  had  hurried 
home  with  the  books,  had  gone  over  the  items  and  the 
columns,  until  her  head  buzzed  with  rolls  of  flannelette, 
reels  of  cotton,  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence. 

Whatever  she  did,  the  deficit  persisted. 

Nothing  for  it  but  to  tell  her  husband,  and  she 
dreaded  —  oh,  how  she  dreaded !  —  the  moment  of  avowal. 
Henry  was  so  particular  about  money.  In  spite  of  her 
forty-five  years,  she  felt  like  a  small  child  who  had  been 
naughty  and  for  whom  the  dreaded  moment  of  confession 
had  come. 

Her  scissors  went  "  crusp,  crusp  "  through  the  stout 
long  cloth.  She  was  unconsciously  hearing  and  register- 
ing the  little  sounds  of  the  house.  Mab  was  in  bed  and 
asleep,  but  Nancy  was  still  moving  about  overhead,  and 


The  Rolling  Stone 163 

only  a  few  minutes  ago  James  had  carried  his  drawing 
materials  into  the  dining-room.  Harry,  about  whose 
movements  and  companions  she  was  always  dubious,  was 
out,  and  so  was  her  husband.  But  she  was  expecting  the 
latter,  had  only  just  finished  laying  for  him  a  cold  supper. 
He  was  absent  on  one  of  those  evening  jobs  by  which  he 
augmented  his  income. 

When  he  came  in  she  must  show  him  the  books,  tell 
him  what  Miranda  Cobb  had  said,  beg  him  to  believe 
there  was  no  truth  in  what  she  had  thought,  had  in- 
sinuated. The  creak  of  a  stairboard,  and  her  heart 
jumped;  but  it  was  only  one  of  the  noises  of  the  night. 

What  would  Henry  say?  Two  pounds!  And  she  had 
been  so  careful  never  to  use  a  penny  of  the  money  for 
anything  not  strictly  clothing  club.  She  had  even,  when 
paying  the  bills,  added  a  shilling  here,  a  few  pence  there, 
from  money  that  was  strictly  hers,  being  her  dress  al- 
lowance. 

Yet  she  could  not  account  for  two  pounds,  three  shill- 
ings and  sixpence ! 

The  sounds  of  movement  overhead  had  ceased  and  the 
house  was  still.  Her  heart  jumped  again  as  the  stillness 
was  broken  by  the  insertion  of  Mr.  King's  key  in  the 
lock  of  the  front  door.  Her  fingers  shook  so  that  she 
let  the  scissors  fall.  She  did  not  hear  the  resultant  clatter, 
did  not  realize  she  had  been  holding  them.  The  moment 
for  which  she  had  been  waiting,  the  moment  she  had  been 
dreading,  was  come. 

"  I've  something  to  tell  you." 

"Yes,  Henry?" 

"  They  want  me  to  be  secretary,  for  the  technical 
schools." 

"  How  " —  she  moistened  her  lips  — "  how  wise  of 
them." 


164  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  I  held  out  for  decent  pay,  got  it  too,  and  now  I  shall 
be  able  to  give  Richard  more.  He  is  always  saying  his 
allowance  is  less  than  that  of  the  other  men  at  Balliol." 
Mr.  King  rolled  the  name  of  the  college  off  his  tongue; 
he  enjoyed  uttering  it.  "  My  son  at  Oxford  "  and  "  my 
son  at  the  'Varsity,"  "  My  son  at  Balliol  " —  the  phrases 
were  sweet  to  him  as  sugar-plums  to  a  child. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

Picking  up  the  books,  she  offered  them  to  him.  She 
could  not  speak.  With  concern  he  saw  her  face  was 
puckering,  that  she  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  "  Why, 
my  dear,  what's  this?  " 

Words  came  with  a  rush.  "  The  accounts  of  the 
clothing  club.  I've  gone  over  them  again  and  again, 
but  I  can't  .  .  .  oh,  Henry,  I  can't  make  them  come 
right." 

"  Are  you  much  out  ?  " 

She  could  not  give  utterance  to  that  nightmare  total. 
Two  pounds,  three  shillings  and  sixpence !  It  loomed 
tremendous.  Impossible  that  she  should  have  lost  it.  He 
would  not  be  able  to  believe  her.  "  Oh,  don't  —  don't 
ask  me.  .  .  ." 

"  But  if  I'm  to  be  of  any  use,  I  must  know." 

"  Henry  .  .  "  her  voice  broke  and  she  stood  struggling 
for  control,  "  they  think  —  they  think  I've  taken  the 
money."  If  only  she  could  get  her  voice  out,  past  the 
constriction  in  her  throat,  past  the  sobs ! 

At  last  they  came,  but  together,  voice  and  sobs.  "  I 
never  touched  a  farthing  of  it  —  never,  never.  I  promise 
you,  Henry,  I  never  touched  it." 

Mr.  King  understood,  and  the  husband  in  him  was 
moved.  He  went  up  and  put  his  arms  about  her  and 


The  Rolling  Stone 165 

kissed  her  tenderly  on  her  wet  cheek.  "  My  dear,"  he 
said  strongly,  "  I  know  you  didn't." 

She  clung  to  him.  She  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
and  she  sobbed. 

"  There,  there,  my  dear.     I  know  you  couldn't." 

"  Oh,"  she  said  after  a  time,  "  I've  had  such  a  day. 
I  was  so  afraid  you  wouldn't  understand,  and  I  went  over 
and  over  the  accounts  and  added  them  different  ways,  but 
nothing  made  any  difference.  I  suppose  I've  been  care- 
less. .  .  ." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  King,  but  very  kindly. 

"  In  future  I'll  get  you  to  keep  them  for  me  — "  Her 
tone  changed  to  one  of  simple  amazement.  "  Gracious !  " 
she  cried,  and  looked  across  her  husband's  shoulder 
towards  the  door.  Mr.  King,  releasing  her,  turned  in 
the  same  direction,  and  he,  too,  was  taken  aback. 

Harry,  entering  in  his  usual  fashion  —  that  is  to  say, 
quickly  and  quietly  —  had  been  checked  on  the  threshold 
by  the  unusual  sight  of  his  mother  being  kissed  and  com- 
forted by  his  father,  an  occurrence  which  in  his  experience 
was  without  precedent.  In  his  surprise  he  had  forgotten 
what  had  brought  him  thither,  forgotten  also  the  change 
in  his  appearance. 

"What  is  this  mummery?"  said  Mr.  King,  recovering 
his  wits. 

"Mummery?"  began  Harry,  then  recollected  that  he 
was  wearing  the  Glengarry  cap  with  two  streamers,  the 
black-and-green  uniform  of  the  Rifle  Volunteers.  "  I  took 
the  oath  this  evening." 

"You  have  joined?     Joined  the  Volunteers?" 

"  If  I  can't  serve  my  country  one  way  I  will  another." 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  King,  secure  of  his  facts,  "  people  of 
our  sort  don't  join  the  Volunteers." 


166 The  Rolling-  Stone 

"  If  we  had  a  war,"  said  Harry,  quoting  the  shop  fore- 
man, "  a  big  war  —  and  you  never  know  what  is  coming  — 
I  should  offer  to  fight.  I,"  becoming  Harry  King  again, 
"  should  love  a  bit  of  soldiering." 

"  Meanwhile  you  want  to  dress  up  and  go  band-march- 
ing," said  Mr.  King  severely,  "with  all  the  riff-raff  of 
the  town." 

"  Oh,  come,  it's  not  so  bad  as  that." 

"  Soldiering  of  any  sort,"  said  Mr.  King  with  convic- 
tion, "  and  this  amateur  kind  is  no  different  from  the  other, 
leads  to  drinking  and  vice.  I  never  thought  a  son  of 
mine  would  become  a  volunteer." 

"  There  are  as  good  men  in  the  Army  as  out  of  it." 

"  The  temptations  are  terrible." 

"  And,"  interposed  Mrs.  King,  "  we  are  always  praying 
'  Lead  us  not  into  temptation.'  Besides,  Amos's  son  is  a 
volunteer." 

Amos  was  the  odd-job  man  employed  in  the  garden 
and  to  clean  boots  and  knives. 

"What  does  it  matter?"  Harry  liked  young  Amos, 
was  teaching  him  to  box,  meant  to  make  a  man  of  him. 

"  Your  associates,  Henry,  should  be  people  you  can 
bring  to  your  home,  people  you  can  introduce  to  your 
mother  and  sisters.  Amos  is  a  respectable  man  but  his 
children  are  hardly  fit  companions  for  Bet  and  Nancy." 

Harry  did  not  cavil,  neither  did  he  feel  that  his  father 
was  right.  Upstairs,  in  his  room,  was  a  book  — "  The 
Blight  of  Respectability."  When  he  had  read  it  he 
would  be  able  to  confute  these  views,  convince  his  father 
of  lifelong  mistakes. 

"  Also,"  said  Mr.  King,  warming  a  little,  "  I  disapprove 
of  the  under-the-carpet  way  in  which  you  have  gone  about 
this  business.  You  should  have  come  to  me.  I  never  re- 
fuse you  children  anything  that  is  for  your  good." 


The  Rolling  Stone  167 

"  It's  done  now,"  said  Harry,  still  unable  to  agree. 
He  looked  about  him,  vaguely  disappointed.  He  had 
meant  to  create  a  sensation,  to  startle  his  family,  but  he 
had  also  hoped  they  would  admire.  A  pity  his  sisters 
were  in  bed  and  asleep.  "  Mother !  "  he  said.  "  Mother 
—  don't  you  like  my  uniform?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  King  unexpectedly ;  "  yes,  I  do. 
Now  be  off  with  you." 

"  Well,  really,  Sophy,  I'm  surprised  at  you ! "  remon- 
strated Mr.  King  as  the  door  closed  on  Harry. 

But  Mrs.  King  was  still  under  the  influence  of  softening 
emotion. 

"  Well,  Henry/'  she  said,  "  volunteering  may  be  low, 
but  that  uniform  makes  him  look  a  smart  lad."  She  took 
the  elastic  band  off  the  clothing-club  books  and  pointed 
to  the  total.  "  Two  pounds,  three  shillings  and  six- 
pence." 

"  I'll  bring  it  to  you,  my  dear.  Til  —  er  —  go  and  get 
it  now." 


Chapter  XI 


OLD  AMOS,  wheeling  a  heavy  barrow  up  the 
slight  incline  on  the  top  of  which  stood  No.  14 
Parkside,  started  as  a  hand  clapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  a  voice  cried,  "  Hullo !  What  have  you  got 
there?" 

"  You  are  home  early,  sir."  If  he  had  not  supposed 
Mr.  King  at  work  in  the  office  he  would  hardly  have  fetched 
the  dumb-bells.  "These?  They  be  some  of  young 
master's  contraptions." 

Mr.  King,  leaning  over,  put  a  hand  to  one  of  the 
heaviest.  He  was  surprised  to  find  it  as  unyielding  as  if 
it  had  been  nailed  to  the  floor  of  the  barrow.  "  Why 
.  .  .  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Thiccy  there's  all  of  a  hundredweight,  but  that  little 
'un  hain't  more'n  a  seven-pounder." 

"  What  does  he  want  them  for?" 

"  'Tis  summat  to  do  wi'  the  display  down  at  th'  drill- 
hall.  But  there's  Master  Harry  waiting.  He  can  tell 
'ee." 

Mr.  King,  looking  up,  met  young  hopeful's  apprehen- 
sive eye. 

"  Turning  your  home  into  an  iron  foundry?  "  he  asked 
mildly.  He  had  been  impressed  by  the  fact  that  Harry 
could  play  with  dumb-bells  that  he,  the  father,  could  not 
lift. 

"  I'm  doing  a  turn  with  these  on  the  nineteenth,"  said 

Harry  hardily,  "  and  I  must  practise  a  bit."     It  had  been 

168 


The  Rolling  Stone 169 

his  intention  to  smuggle  them  into  the  house  before  his 
father  returned  from  the  office,  and  to  use  them  after 
he  was  supposed  by  the  rest  of  the  family  to  be  in  bed. 

"  The  nineteenth  ?  "  said  Mr.  King  vaguely.  His  mind 
had  returned  to  the  consideration  of  some  news  Arch- 
deacon Margerison  had  given  him. 

"  It's  the  annual  display  at  the  drill-hall.  I  am  ar- 
ranging the  program  this  year.  You  must  come  to 
it,  father." 

"  I?     Oh,  I  shouldn't  have  time !  " 

"  I  wish  you'd  take  an  evening  off  just  for  once."  If 
his  father  saw  what  he  could  do,  surely  he  would  be  proud 
of  him,  proud  as  were  the  men  at  the  works  and  the  fre- 
quenters of  the  "  George." 

"  Well,  we'll  see."  He  was  pleased  the  boy  should  seem 
anxious  to  have  him  present  —  a  very  proper  spirit. 

Harry,  lifting  the  two  heaviest  dumb-bells,  began  to 
walk  away. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  keep  them  ?  " 

"  The  bottom  of  my  cupboard." 

"  You  can't  carry  them  up  all  those  stairs." 

Harry  only  smiled  and  Mr.  King,  watching  the  com- 
pact figure  as  it  went  up  the  rough  granite  steps,  wished 
for  a  moment  that  he  could  see  more  of  his  boy  —  that  he 
were  not  busy,  evening  after  evening,  earning  the  money 
for  Richard,  for  the  girls'  boarding-school,  the  money  that 
was  to  lift  his  children  a  step  up  the  social  ladder,  to 
raise  their  heads  just  a  foot  higher  than  his  had  been. 
He  was  missing  something.  Was  that  something  only 
a  pleasure?  Was  it  not  also  an  opportunity,  the  oppor- 
tunity to  guide  young  Harry  —  Harry  who  was  naturally 
such  a  wild  lad? 

Which  brought  him  back  to  the  Archdeacon's  warning. 
"  If  it  had  been  you,  Mr.  King,  no  harm  could  possibly 


170 The  Rolling  Stone 

ensue;  but  a  young  fellow  like  your  son!  I  should  cer- 
tainly think  twice  before  giving  my  consent." 

When  Harry,  breathing  a  little  quickly,  reappeared, 
his  father  tackled  him. 

"  What's  this  I  hear  about  your  playing  football  for 
the  Midland  Counties?  " 

"  I  played  for  them  all  last  season." 

"  I  mean  this  idea  of  your  playing  in  the  team  that  is 
being  sent  to  Paris." 

To  play  for  England  against  France  had  long  been  one 
of  Harry's  ambitions,  but  he  had  kept  it  secret.  "  If 
they'll  only  send  me  .  .  ."  he  said. 

"  I  most  sincerely  hope  they  won't." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  against  it  ?  "  From 
under  his  thick  thatch  he  stared  resentfully  at  his  father. 
Was  there  nothing  he  could  do  of  which  the  "  old  man  " 
approved?  Every  one  else  thought  he  would  be  lucky  if 
he  were  chosen.  Lucky?  A  poor  word! 

"  Paris  is  a  hotbed  of  vice." 

"  I'm  going  on  for  nineteen,  and  if  I  can't  take  care 
of  myself  now  I  shall  never  be  able  to." 

"  You  won't  go  with  my  consent." 

"  Look  here,  father,  it's  no  good  you  yowking  to  me 
about  it !  You've  never  been  to  Paris  and  you're  only 
going  by  what  people  say.  If  you  were  speaking  because 
you'd  been  through  the  mill  it  would  be  different,  but 
you  —  you  don't  know!  " 

Was  this  the  result,  thought  poor  Mr.  King,  of  keeping 
yourself  unspotted  from  the  world?  A  blameless  youth 
and  your  son,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  reproached  you 
with  it !  How  differently  things  turned  out  from  what 
one  had  been  led  to  expect.  In  books  the  good  man  had 
the  respect  of  the  rising  generation,  was  deferred  to  and 
consulted.  His  experience  had  been  that  the  good  man 


The  Rolling  Stone 171 

was  left  high  on  a  bank  and  that  the  stream  of  young 
life  rushed  by,  sufficient  unto  itself. 

"  If  you  mean  that  I  haven't  .  .  ."  he  began. 

"  That's  it,"  said  intolerant  youth. 

"  In  this  matter  our  duty  is  plain.  A  man  should  avoid 
that  which  is  evil." 

"  Ah,"  said  Harry,  "  but  I  never  was  afraid  of  things." 
He  picked  up  a  further  load  of  dumb-bells  and  carried 
them  into  the  house. 

Mr.  King,  following,  sought  his  wife.  He  had  cleaved 
to  that  which  is  good  and  his  children  saw  it  as  weakness, 
fear.  They  dispossessed  him  of  his  attributes,  they  drove 
him  out.  Only  with  Sophy  was  he  any  longer  of  the 
first  importance,  but  he  and  she  —  they  were  of  an  age. 
He  went  to  her  as  one  seeking  a  refuge  from  rain  and 
wind.  In  autumn  the  sun  sets  early  and  the  evenings 
are  dark,  but  there  is  the  fire  on  the  hearth  —  the  fire  at 
which  man  may  warm  his  poor  heart. 

Harry,  on  the  contrary,  was  jubilant.  So  it  had  got 
about  that  there  was  a  chance  of  his  being  chosen  to 
play  for  England !  Eleven  men  out  of  the  thousands  who 
played  football  and  he  one  of  the  eleven !  To  play  for 
England,  in  a  small  way  to  represent  her ! 

And  his  father  disapproved !  He  would  rather  Harry 
were  teaching  in  Sunday-school.  Harry  grinned  over 
his  recollections.  He  had  done  as  they  wished,  taken 
on  a  class,  brought  it  along  on  a  diet  of  strong  men, 
on  Samson,  Esau,  and  the  fall  of  Jericho :  "  Trumpets 
are  all  very  well,  but  the  Jews  were  no  fools  and  they  knew 
God  helps  those  who  help  themselves.  They  mined  those 
walls,  and  the  trumpeting  was  the  signal  to  light  the 
fuses.  Can't  you  see  them  .  .  ." 

Unfortunately,  the  Bible  according  to  Harry  King  did 
not  meet  with  the  approval  of  the  authorities.  After 


172 The  Rolling  Stone 

three  Sundays  a  more  orthodox  teacher  was  induced, 
against  his  better  judgment,  to  take  Harry's  place,  and 
the  Sunday-school  knew  him  no  more. 

He  had  a  rich  gurgling  laugh,  and  as  he  laid  the  dumb- 
bells in  a  row  along  the  bottom  of  the  cupboard  which 
held  his  coats  he  chuckled  over  the  poor  Archdeacon's 
troubles.  Margerison  had  been  anxious  to  get  rid  of  his 
unorthodox  teacher,  but  even  more  anxious  not  to  offend 
the  susceptibilities  of  that  teacher's  very  useful  father ! 
Harry  laughed,  too,  at  thought  of  the  man  who  had  suc- 
ceeded him,  old  Bobbie  Chapman  — "  Two  Puddings  " — 
Chapman  who  had  no  hold  over  them,  never  would,  never 
could  have.  They  would  be  sky-larking  all  the  time. 
With  Harry  they  had  been  mice;  he  had  seen  to  it  that 
they  were.  He  had  been  a  head-on  collision,  had  backed 
away  from  controversy  but  stood  stubborn  as  a  mule  to 
any  who  were  hunting  trouble;  and  he  had  enjoyed  it,  en- 
joyed every  minute  of  it. 

He  went  to  fetch  the  last  of  the  dumb-bells,  and,  pass- 
ing the  staircase  window,  saw  that  some  one  was  sitting 
at  that  of  No.  13,  sitting  as  Megan  Roberts  had  sat. 
The  sight  sent  a  thrill  through  him,  sent  his  thought  to 
the  idyll  of  two  summers  ago.  She  had  had  successors, 
a  crowd  of  light  quick  fancies,  but  she  had  been  the  first. 
How  sweet  she  had  been,  sweet  all  over !  He  had  loved 
to  pinch  up  little  bits  of  her  delicate  arm  between  his 
strong  thumb  and  finger,  to  hurt  her  a  little,  a  very  little, 
enough  to  make  her  turn  on  him  with  a  dash  of  fierceness. 

It  was  over  so  quickly.  A  few  meetings,  desperate 
climbs  through  darkness  to  a  little  warm  eyrie,  and  she 
was  gone.  She  had  not  written.  He  did  not  know  where 
in  the  wide  world  was  that  passionate  heart  and  he  hardly 
cared.  He  had  the  perfect  memory  of  her,  and  in  the 


The  Rolling  Stone  173 

rush  of  tumbling  emotions  was  too  busy  to  remember, 
too  eager  on  fresh  scents  to  long  for  a  renewal  of  what 
had  grown  familiar. 

If  his  father  had  known !  If  he  knew  where  Harry 
went  and  what  he  did  and  who  were  his  associates,  the 
hundred-and-one  interests  of  his  keen,  busy,  questing  ex- 
istence. If  his  father  only  knew  half  — 

He  would  disapprove,  of  course,  and  yet  —  why  should 
he?  Had  he  himself  never  been  young?  Harry,  bursting 
with  vitality,  with  desire,  with  every  sort  of  emotion, 
conscious  of  the  wild  riot  of  his  pulses,  wondered  if  his 
father's  spring-time  had  been  less  sappy?  Had  he  been  — 
different?  Was  he  not  driven  by  instincts  which  Harry 
divined  under  the  subterfuges  and  superficialities  of  other 
men?  If  he  were,  surely  he  must  understand  how  it  was 
with  his  sons,  with  this  particular  son? 

Harry  added  the  last  dumb-bell  to  the  line  and  sat 
for  a  moment  on  the  end  of  his  bed,  gloating.  He  had 
been  at  -some  pains  to  get  them  made  for  him,  and  he 
was  to  use  them  on  the  platform  of  the  drill-hall.  He 
was  to  do  the  strong-man  turn  on  the  nineteenth  —  show 
the  railway  town  how  much  he  could  lift,  lift  with  his 
hands,  lift  with  his  teeth.  Like  Richard,  he,  Harry,  was 
gradually  coming  into  his  own  —  a  different  own  certainly 
but,  in  its  way,  as  valuable  to  the  country. 

With  a  breath  of  happy  anticipation  he  rose  and  took 
his  way  into  the  town.  He  was  due  at  the  "  George  "  for 
a  committee  meeting.  Dr.  Ryan,  the  man  who  drove  the 
best  horses,  Cunliffe  the  auctioneer,  Bell  the  wine  mer- 
chant, were  members,  and  were  backing  Harry's  effort  to 
make  the  gym.  display  a  success.  Old  Bill  Mountain, 
though  not  of  their  class,  had  also  been  admitted.  Box- 
ing contests  were  to  follow  on  Harry's  turn  as  strong 


174  The  Rolling  Stone 

man,  and  Mountain's  knowledge  of  the  rules  was  useful. 

"  It's  a  good  program,"  said  Bell,  the  big,  lame 
wine-merchant,  "  but  it  ends  a  bit  tamely." 

"  Why  not  match  a  pair  of  old  stiffs  for  a  fifteen-round 
exhibition  spar?  "  suggested  Mountain. 

"  How  much  would  they  want  ?  " 

"  Side-stakes  and  a  purse  of  quids,"  said  Mountain. 
"  I  could  get  Jerry  O'Gorman  and  Sid  Hobbs  for  twenty- 
five  apiece." 

"  An  excellent  idea,"  said  Dr.  Ryan  in  his  precise  way. 

"  Take  the  town  by  storm,"  chuckled  Cunliffe.  "  We 
shall  have  to  put  up  the  money  among  us,  I  suppose? 
Well,  here's  a  fiver !  " 

"  Mr.  Ponsonby  at  the  Grange  can  box  a  bit,"  suggested 
Mountain ;  "  he'd  help." 

"  I  believe  he  would,  and  there  are  others.  Then  it's 
agreed?  "  Ryan  put  the  motion  to  the  committee.  "  We 
find  the  money  and  Mountain  writes  to  the  men." 

"  You  go  ahead,  old  cock,"  cried  Cunliffe  enthusiasti- 
cally, "  and  get  'em ;  and  as  soon  as  you  know  for  certain, 
we'll  put  their  dials  in  the  pub.  windows  and  bill  'em 
all  over  the  town." 

"  I'll  send  a  notice  to  the  Dispatch,"  said  Dr.  Ryan, 
"  and  it  would  be  as  well,  perhaps,  to  have  handbills  left 
at  the  doors.  It's  fortunate  the  hall  is  so  large.  It  will 
be  crowded." 

n 

Mr.  King,  coming  home  one  evening  after  he  had  finished 
his  secretarial  work  at  the  technical  schools,  walking 
briskly  through  streets  that  had  been  flushed  and  left 
shining  by  a  shower,  was  brought  up  short  by  something 
in  a  shop-window  of  which  he  had  caught  a  passing 
glimpse.  The  shop  was  that  of  a  jeweller,  and  the  window 


The  Rolling  Stone 175 

displayed  a  silver  cup.  Against  it  two  photographs  had 
been  placed  upright,  and  below  them  was  a  small  hand- 
bill. To  Mr.  King  the  features  of  both  photographs  were 
familiar.  That  on  the  right  represented  a  young  man 
in  his  office,  by  name  Ted  Mudford,  a  young  man  of 
drinking,  betting  proclivities,  the  incarnation  of  every 
thing  of  which  Mr.  King  disapproved.  The  other  —  the 
father  could  hardly  believe  it,  but  there  was  no  possibility 
of  mistake ! —  the  half -naked  lad,  with  arms  folded  across 
his  chest,  big  arms  across  a  tremendous  chest,  was  Harry. 

Mr.  King  stared  at  the  upturned  face,  the  smooth 
young  face  of  eighteen,  all  curves  and  roundness  and  trust. 
He  stared  at  the  stark  presentment  of  the  lad's  muscles, 
at  the  shoulders  stretching  almost  incredibly  broad,  at 
the  forearm ;  and  if  for  a  moment  he  had  thrilled  at  the 
sight  of  that  flesh  which  he  had  fathered,  the  thrill  was 
quickly  drowned  by  a  rush  of  less  primitive  emotions. 
His  son,  naked,  photographed  naked,  set  up  in  a  shop- 
window  for  all  to  see !  Nakedness  was  for  bedrooms,  and 
even  then  only  for  a  moment,  the  moment  between  shirt 
and  nightshirt.  Mr.  King  was  inexpressibly  shocked. 

How  had  it  come  about?  Why  were  the  lads  exposed 
to  public  view?  Mr.  King  did  not  read  the  Dispatch, 
had  not  seen  the  handbills,  and  had  forgotten  about  the 
display.  His  glance  travelled  from  the  photographs  to 
the  printed  leaflet  below,  and  even  then  he  was  some  time 
in  discovering  what  he  wanted  to  know.  The  names  of 
O'Gorman  and  Hobbs  were  in  heavily  leaded  type,  also 
the  number  of  rounds,  the  amount  of  the  purse  offered. 
Mr.  King,  to  his  disgust,  presently  realized  that  he  was 
looking  at  the  program  of  the  gymnastic  display,  and 
that  the  last  and  most  important  event  was  to  be  a  boxing 
contest  between  professionals  of  the  ring. 

But  Harry,  what  had  that  to  do  with  Harry?     His 


176  The  Rolling  Stone 

father  made  out  at  last  that  several  minor  contests  pre- 
ceded the  Hobbs-O'Gorman  fight,  the  last  of  these  being1 
between  Ted  Mudford  and  Henry  King.  The  lads  were 
well  known  in  the  town,  popular  favourites  on  the  foot- 
ball field  and  elsewhere  —  hence  the  photographs. 

"  Not  while  he  lives  in  my  house,"  said  Mr.  King,  and 
set  his  lips  in  a  straight  line. 

He  saw  his  social  position  menaced  by  Harry's  undis- 
ciplined energies. 

Confound  Harry !  Did  he  never  think  of  anybody  but 
himself?  Did  he  not  realize  how  unpleasant  it  would  be 
for  them  all  if  that  photograph  were  recognized  by  ac- 
quaintances newly  made  and  a  little  higher  in  the  scale ; 
by  clergymen's  wives  who  were  inclined  to  smile  on  Rich- 
ard and  invite  him  to  their  vicarages,  by  rich  school- 
fellows who  asked  Bet  to  stay  with  them?  Mr.  King 
hurried  through  the  shining  streets.  The  photograph 
must  be  taken  out  of  Barham's  window.  He  felt  sure  it 
had  not  been  there  more  than  a  few  hours ;  possibly  not 
many  people  had  noticed  it. 

"  I've  just  come  past  Barham's  in  High  Street,"  he 
said  ominously,  as  he  entered  the  dining-room  where  Harry 
was  lingering  while  his  mother  replaced  a  lost  button. 
"  What  is  the  meaning  of  that  disgusting  photograph  of 
you,  Henry?  " 

Harry,  hit  on  a  tender  spot,  changed  colour.  "  It's 
only  me  to  the  waist ! " 

"  Only !  "  snorted  Mr.  King.     "  It's  —  it's  indecent !  " 

"  Oh,  really,  father ! "  Used  to  the  simple  garb  of 
the  athlete,  Harry  had  lost  the  family  point  of  view,  but 
the  accusation  troubled  him.  Indecent?  He  glanced  at 
his  placid  mother.  Would  she  think  it  indecent?  He 
supposed  she  might.  He  grew  hot  and  uncomfortable; 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  ashamed. 


The  Rolling  Stone 177 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  said  Mrs.  King,  sticking  her 
needle  through  a  hole  in  the  button. 

"  There's  a  photograph  of  Henry  in  Barham's  shop." 

"  I  saw  it  this  afternoon." 

"  My  dear  —  he  has  nothing  on  1 " 

"  He's  made  much  like  other  lads,  I  suppose."  Naked 
bodies  were  nothing  to  the  woman  who  had  borne  six 
children.  She  twisted  the  thread  round  her  stitches  and 
fastened  it  at  the  back.  "  There !  "  she  said  comfortably, 
and  Harry  blessed  her.  The  queer,  hot  feeling  had  gone ; 
he  was  no  longer  at  a  disadvantage  with  his  father. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Sophy.  To  expose  the  body 
is  revolting  to  all  clean-minded  people." 

"  It  may  be,  Henry,  but  I've  seen  them  so  often  I  can't 
think  anything  of  it." 

"  Thank  goodness,  then,  that  I  have  a  clear  sense  of 
right  and  wrong."  He  was  offended  by  her  lack  of 
sympathy.  "  This  photograph  must  be  taken  out  at 
once." 

"  All  right." 

"  I  see  there  is  to  be  a  fight  between  you  and  Ted 
Mudford." 

"  He  challenged  me." 

"  You  are  to  fight  in  public  ?  " 

"At  the  display."     What  was  his  father  driving  at? 

"  At  an  entertainment  of  which  the  principal  attrac- 
tion is  to  be  a  fight  between  real  pugilists." 

"  Yes." 

Mr.  King  was  standing  on  the  hearthrug.  He  straddled 
his  legs  a  little.  "  Now,  Henry,  I  will  not  have  you 
mixed  up  with  anything  of  the  sort." 

"What?"  said  the  surprised  Harry. 

"  I  won't  have  it.  You  have  come  to  the  parting  of 
the  ways,  Henry.  It's  your  home,  your  family,  or  these 


178 The  Rolling  Stone 

brutal  associates  of  yours.  I  won't  have  you  fight  Mud- 
ford  at  the  display." 

"  But  you  knew  about  this  entertainment,  father.  It's 
the  annual  display,  and  it's  to  raise  funds  for  the  hos- 
pital." 

"  It's  not  the  usual  thing,  for  you  have  introduced  the 
element  of  professionalism,  you  are  bringing  people  to 
this  town  whose  mode  of  life  is  a  disgrace  to  humanity." 

"  They  are  decent  chaps." 

"  They  are  brutalized,  degraded."  The  tremulous 
shrinking  which  kept  him  clothed  even  in  the  presence 
of  his  wife  made  boxing  a  matter  about  which  it  was 
difficult  for  him  to  be  reasonable.  The  body  was  sacred, 
not  to  be  approached  by  a  razor,  not  to  be  exposed  to 
wanton  injury.  "  Do  you  think  that  man,  made  in  the 
image  of  God,  was  meant  to  be  battered  about  by  the 
fists  of  other  men?  The  idea  is  horrible.  And  to  think 
there  are  people  who  earn  their  living  by  inflicting  injuries 
on  each  other." 

Mr.  King  was  speaking  nakedly,  and  he  got  from  Harry 
as  sincere  an  answer. 

"  I'd  rather  be  a  fighter  than  anything  else  in  the 
world." 

Silence  fell  on  this  declaration.  Mrs.  King  looked  at 
her  offspring  in  surprise  at  his  audacity.  She  had  had  a 
short  way  with  her  children,  and  she  regretted  that  this 
short  way  was  no  longer  practicable. 

"  You  don't  mean  it ! "  cried  poor  Mr.  King,  rallying 
his  forces.  Harry  a  pugilist?  Better  he  had  never  been 
born.  Of  all  things  —  a  pugilist !  Not  even  the  astound- 
ing physical  development  of  the  lad  had  suggested  that 
this  might  follow.  To  Mr.  King  it  would  not  have  seemed 
possible  that  any  one  of  his  blood  could  want  to  become 
a  prize-fighter ;  as  well  be  a  scavenger,  a  hangman.  .  .  . 


The  Rolling  Stone  179 

"I  do  mean  it." 

"  Nonsense,  Harry,"  said  his  mother,  and  felt  she  had 
disposed  of  the  matter. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about."  He 
looked  anxiously  at  his  son,  at  the  square,  resolute  little 
vessel  that  had  been  built  to  sail  on  perilous  seas,  that 
was  ready  to  up-anchor  and  be  off.  At  all  costs,  Harry 
must  be  prevented  from  sailing  this  particular  sea.  Mr. 
King  marshalled  the  reasons  that  could  be  urged  against 
adventuring  on  its  waters.  "  We  are  civilized ;  we  don't 
need  to  defend  ourselves  with  our  hands.  The  law  fights 
our  battles  and  defends  us  from  aggression.  This  boxing 
is  a  relic  of  barbarism ;  the  man  who  makes  his  living  by 
it  is  nothing  better  than  a  savage." 

Though  it  was  Harry's  habit  to  distrust  his  father's 
conclusions,  the  older  man's  position  in  the  family  gave 
them  weight.  The  lad,  longing  to  be  a  pugilist,  yet 
doubted.  He  could  not  put  into  words  his  feeling  that 
fighting  called  out  and  developed  fine  qualities.  He  could 
not  have  named  those  qualities ;  he  was  conscious  of  them 
but  could  not  bring  out  their  names,  flaunt  them  in  the 
face  of  authority. 

"  I  was  made  for  a  fighter,"  he  said,  feeling  that  his 
father's  opposition  was  a  forerunner  of  the  attitude  that 
would  be  taken  by  the  rest  of  the  family,  by  friends,  by 
acquaintances.  "  I  should  make  a  good  thing  of  it.  I 
might  — "  he  warmed  at  the  thought,  "  I'm  a  heavy- 
weight, you  know,  and  yet  I'm  quick,  and  that's  unusual. 
I  might  be  in  the  running  for  the  belt."  He  was  thinking, 
as  Harry  always  thought,  of  the  utmost,  the  extreme, 
the  top.  Some  one  must  be  the  champion;  why  not  he? 

"  In  fact,"  said  Mr.  King,  finding  an  apposite  quotation 
in  his  mind  and  seizing  it,  "  you'd  rather  '  rule  in  hell  than 
.serve  in  heaven  '?  No,  no,  my  boy,  I  haven't  brought 


180  The  Rolling  Stone 

you  up  in  a  good  home,  among  respectable,  God-fearing 
people,  for  you  to  throw  away  every  chance  of  making  a 
position  for  yourself.  You  are  an  engineer.  You  may 
become  as  great  a  man  as  Brunei.  This  is  sheer  boyish 
folly,  the  folly  that  makes  a  child  want  to  be  a  policeman 
or  an  engine-driver.  You  are  attracted  by  the  show  and 
glitter,  by  the  easy  money ;  but  easy  come  is  easy  go  and 
the  show  is  hollow  —  hollow." 

He  held  out  the  mess  of  pottage,  asking  in  return 
Harry's  birthright  of  gifts ;  and  Harry  knew,  deep  down, 
that  for  him  the  exchange  was  a  loss,  a  heavy,  irreparable 
loss ;  but,  being  young,  he  wavered.  Was  his  father  mis- 
taken? He  was  old  and,  up  to  a  point,  experienced. 
Was  what  he  said  true?  Was  fighting,  after  all,  brutal 
and  brutalizing? 

Of  late  Harry  had  spent  his  spare  money  on  tickets  to 
London.  The  ring  drew  him,  and  he  had  seen  a  good 
many  contests,  the  good  and  the  bad  side  of  fighting. 
The  boxers  were  men,  fierce,  hard  men.  Was  he,  Harry 
King,  of  that  company;  or  had  his  life  blossomed  under 
the  sun  for  other,  perhaps  finer,  purposes? 

If  he  were  only  sure ! 

His  father  seemed  so  confident,  and  with  him,  backing 
him  up,  strengthening  his  conviction,  was  the  family. 
People  looked  down  on  pugilists.  Could  he,  Harry,  bear 
to  number  himself  with  a  folk  held  in  light  esteem  by  his 
parents  and  their  friends?  His  brothers  were  rising  in 
the  world.  Could  he  take  a  step  down,  choose  for  his 
companions  rough  and  simple  people?  Had  he  the 
strength  to  come  out  from  his  middle-class  associations, 
cast  off  the  trappings  of  respectability?  His  instincts 
bade  him  set  the  world  at  defiance  and  follow  his  bent; 
but  should  instinct  be  the  guide? 

Harry  was  so  young. 


The  Rolling  Stone 181 

He  had  no  certitude  as  to  the  course  he  should  pursue, 
Things  of  no  importance  tugged  at  him,  pulling  him 
hither  and  thither.  He  discounted  the  promptings  of  his 
nature,  he  wavered.  If  he  became  a  pugilist  the  family 
would  say  he  had  disgraced  them.  He  could  not  do  it. 
Engineering,  though  it  had  lost  interest  for  him,  must 
be  his  life-work,  fighting  only  a  hobby.  He  made  the 
choice  deliberately,  wondering  vaguely  why  he  should  feel 
so  depressed,  so  unhappy. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  struck  his  father  as 
strangely  lifeless. 

Mr.  King,  who  had  waited  for  the  decision  in  fear  and 
trembling,  was  restored  to  cheerfulness;  his  spirits  rose. 
"  You'll  come  to  see,  my  boy,"  he  boasted  in  his  little 
wisdom,  "  that  I'm  in  the  right.  You'll  live  to  thank 
me  for  having  been  firm  with  you." 

At  the  moment  Harry  was  seeing  his  future  as  a  wheel 
of  laborious  days,  each  more  dismal  than  the  last. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  King,  big  as  a  frog  who  has  drawn 
a  deep  breath,  "  you'll  drop  this  fighting  at  the  gym. 
display." 

Harry  woke  up.     "  I  can't  do  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"  People  have  backed  me  to  win,  put  money  on  me. 
I  can't  let  them  lose  it." 

"Nonsense!     What  are  their  bets  to  do  with  you?" 

"  I  can't  go  back  on  them." 

The  taste  of  power  had  gone  to  Mr.  King's  head. 
"  But  I  won't  have  it,"  he  paused,  then  spoke  with  em- 
phasis, "  not  while  you  are  under  my  roof." 

He  saw  that  he  had  Harry's  full  and  questioning  atten- 
tion. "  Not  while  you  are  under  my  roof,"  he  repeated. 

Harry's  articles  had  still  some  months  to  run.  He 
reflected  rapidly  on  his  position.  Could  he  support  him- 


182 The  Rolling  Stone 

self  on  the  pittance  paid  to  an  apprentice?  His  father 
was  declaring-  that  if  he,  Harry,  fought  Mudford  he  would 
be  given  the  key  of  the  street  —  turned  adrift. 

"You  hear  what  I  say?  You  choose,  once  for  all. 
It's  the  low  rmblic-house  lot  or  your  home." 

Mr.  King  believed  that  he  was  clinching  the  matter, 
that  it  was  necessary  to  be  firm  with  the  lad.  He  did  not 
quite  mean  what  he  said ;  but  Harry  did  not  realize  this. 
He  knew  that  he  was  old  enough  to  leave  home,  that 
many  boys  of  his  ap-e  were  "  on  their  own." 

"  I'll  think  it  over,"  he  said,  his  voice  once  more  lifeless. 
Take  everything  they  would ;  oh,  they  were  a  merry  crew ! 
His  home  or  the  streets,  and  that  because  he  was  set 
on  keeping  an  undertaking  he  had  given.  He  went  to 
bed,  wondering  whether  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst, 
he  could  manage  on  the  fifteen  shillings  a  week  that  he  was 
paid.  The  whole  town  knew  he  was  to  meet  Mudford. 
He  could  not  —  oh,  he  could  not  "  scratch  " ! 

That  night  his  sleep  was  haunted  by  dreams  in  which 
he  was  fleeing  from  various  sorts  of  adversity,  was  taking 
refuge  in  a  cave,  finding  in  its  depths  a  dark  tranquillity. 

Morning  brought  a  solution  of  his  difficulty. 

Mudford,  he  remembered,  was  in  his  father's  office. 
He  had  often  heard  Mr.  King  complain  of  the  young 
fellow's  laziness,  declare  that  his  being  there  was  due  to 
influence ;  some  one  was  interested,  some  one  on  the 
board.  Mr.  King,  pulling  all  the  strings  he  could  for  his 
brood,  objected  to  influence  as  unfair,  objected  to  Mud- 
ford  because  influence  was  his  stepping-stone,  but  ob- 
jected to  him  also  because  he  was  so  often  insolent,  be- 
cause he  made  covert  fun  of  his  senior.  Mr.  King  might, 
Harry  thought,  be  glad  if  Mudford  came  off  second  best 
in  a  boxing  contest,  might  even  feel  his  heart  go  out  to  the 
victor. 


The  Rolling  Stone  183 

At  any  rate,  Harry  would  risk  it. 

Ill 

When  the  evening  came  he  was  one  of  those  deputed 
to  meet  Hobbs  and  O'Gorman.  He  stood  with  Cunliffe 
and  Dr.  Ryan,  proudly  conscious  that  the  group  of  which 
he  formed  a  part  was  the  observed  of  all  the  station  of- 
ficials. He  was  preening  himself  because  this  display,  the 
program  of  which  he  had  arranged,  was  bringing  these 
stars  from  London.  He  had  done  it  —  he,  Harry  King. 
Standing  by  Dr.  Ryan,  stiffly  impassive,  he  was,  in  fact, 
a  little  keg  bursting  with  pride.  The  bands  of  his  self- 
control  were  iron  round  his  staves,  but  within  was  a 
molten  glow,  a  swelling  satisfaction.  Forgotten  were  his 
father's  admonitions.  He  was,  as  usual,  living,  living 
intensely,  in  the  moment. 

The  train  ran  into  the  station.  The  door  of  a  first- 
class  compartment  opened  and  two  men  in  hard  hats  and 
long  check  overcoats  got  out.  Harry  had  an  impres- 
sion of  brightness,  of  stripy  waistcoats,  tawny  neck- 
clothes  —  a  general  look  of  hard,  shiny  competence.  He 
swayed  forward  in  the  wake  of  Dr.  Ryan,  and  in  another 
moment  was  being  introduced,  was  listening  to  Hobbs's 
deep,  rough  "  Glad  to  meet  you,"  to  O'Gorman's  Cornish 
accent. 

He  rushed  home  to  get  his  tea.  He  would  be  wanted 
at  the  hall,  a  thousand-and-one  things  to  see  to ;  his  mind 
was  running  over  with  the  trifles,  each  so  important,  for 
which  he  was  responsible.  To  his  dismay,  he  found  that 
his  mother  had  forgotten  he  wanted  an  early  tea.  He 
burst  into  the  dining-room,  where  Bet,  home  for  the 
Christmas  holidays,  was  shaking  a  mop  of  damp,  newly 
washed  hair  before  the  fire;  while  Richard,  down  from 


184  The  Rolling  Stone 

Balliol,  was  discussing  an  invitation  from  Archdeacon 
Margerison. 

"  They  don't  ask  us,"  Bet  was  saying,  and  Richard 
had  grinned  with,  "  Not  yet,  my  child,  but  they  will." 

"  Can  I  have  my  tea,  mother?  "  cried  Harry.  On  the 
mantelpiece  was  an  envelope  containing  tickets,  the  front- 
row  tickets  he  had  sent  the  family.  He  glanced  at  them, 
wondering  who  was  coming  but  too  shy  to  ask. 

"  It  isn't  tea-time,"  grudged  Mrs.  King,  and  Bet,  gen- 
erally ready  to  run  on  her  youngest  brother's  errands, 
did  not  move. 

"  I'm  wanted  at  the  hall,"  said  Harry,  giving  everybody 
an  opportunity. 

"  There  is  cake  in  the  larder  and  some  milk ;  you  must 
make  do  with  that." 

Harry,  munching  a  thick  slice  of  yeast-cake,  pondered 
the  situation.  Why  had  his  remark  fallen  flat?  Was 
every  one  so  full  of  his  and  her  interests  they  had  no 
leisure  for  a  brother's  affairs?  His  heart  swelled  at  the 
unkindness.  This  was  his  evening,  his  first  appearance 
on  a  platform,  his  challenge  to  the  town.  Surely  his 
people  were  proud  of  him? 

And  in  the  dining-room  Nancy,  the  most  outspoken  of 
the  sisters,  was  exclaiming  bitterly,  "  Henry?  He's  noth- 
ing but  a  disgrace  to  us ! " 


IV 

Harry,  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  was  kept  busy,  but  he 
found  time  for  an  occasional  glance  at  the  row  of  seats 
held  inviolate  by  those  blue  tickets  on  the  mantelshelf  at 
home.  The  hall  was  filling  rapidly.  He  saw  many  people 
whom  he  knew.  Susie  Allen's  pretty,  appealing  face 


The  Rolling  Stone  185 

smiled  stagewards  from  the  third  row.  Bobbie  Chapman 
was  sitting  next  to  her  —  Bobbie  whose  suit  of  "  real  " 
velvet  corduroy  he  had  once  envied  so  desperately,  Bobbie 
who  had  been  the  first  of  his  compeers  to  own  a  velocipede. 
Once  more  Bobbie  would  be  looking  on  while  he,  Harry,  did 
the  trick.  But  —  Harry  looked  thoughtfully  at  Susie. 
He  was  glad  she  had  come  to  see  him  box  Mudf ord ;  it  was 
sweet  of  her.  When  he  did  his  strong-man  feats  he  would 
do  them  for  her.  He  would  gather  up  her  attention, 
make  her  forget  altogether  that  Bobbie  was  sitting  there. 
Perhaps  he  might  even  find  time  between  the  events  to  run 
round  and  speak  to  her ;  he  would  see. 

Were  his  people  never  coming?  The  hall  was  nearly 
full.  It  did  not  look  well  for  them  to  be  so  late. 

"  King  —  you  are  wanted  — " 

He  did  not  get  back  to  his  spy-hole  until  after  the  first 
event,  and  then,  with  a  rush  of  joy,  saw  that  the  seats 
were  occupied.  A  second  glance  extinguished  his  joy. 
The  seats  were  occupied,  but  by  strangers. 

No  member  of  the  family  had  come:  not  Richard,  be- 
fore whom  he  wanted  to  show  off;  not  his  father,  whom 
he  had  hoped  to  impress ;  not  even  Bet.  His  heart  filled 
with  bitterness.  What  a  mouldy  lot  they  were!  This 
was  his  hour  and  they  were  refusing  to  see  it  as  of  any 
importance;  it  was  possible  —  he  could  not  believe  it 
probable  —  they  even  disapproved. 

Yet  the  display  was  going  with  a  swing  and  a  rush. 
The  hall  was  crammed.  The  audience,  hearty,  sporting, 
unrefined,  had  come  in  from  the  country  round  —  farm- 
ers who  fancied  their  own  muscles,  dealers,  graziers, 
fanciers.  The  railway  works  had  contributed  its  quota ; 
Bill  had  come  with  the  missus  and  Jack  had  brought  his 
Jill.  The  black-coats  had  stayed  away,  no  clergy  were 
present.  But  squire  had  come,  both  the  old  man  and  his 


186  The  Rolling  Stone 

soldier  son ;  they  were  all  right,  the  Ponsonbys  —  men ! 

If  they  could  come,  surely  his  people  .  .   . 

If  the  Ponsonbys  approved,  who  were  his  people  to 
object?  He  saw  the  squire  against  the  background  of 
his  big  house  and  grounds ;  saw  his  own  people,  obdurate, 
prejudiced,  small. 

His  bitterness  made  him  reckless.  When  his  turn  came 
he  attempted  feats  that  he  had  not  rehearsed,  did  things 
he  was  never  to  do  again.  And  the  audience  applauded, 
they  went  wild  over  him.  Yes,  these  people  understood ; 
he  was  no  stranger  to  them  but  the  boy  who  had  grown 
up  in  their  midst.  Only  to  his  own  people  was  he  a 
stranger. 

It  was  because  they  were  narrow-minded  and  ignorant ! 
If  he  had  had  the  gift  of  the  gab  he  could  have  expounded 
the  matter  to  them,  made  them  see  where  they  were  mis- 
taken. 

The  boxing  contest  between  Harry  and  Ted  Mudford 
was  an  easy  win  for  the  former;  but  the  victory  left  him 
sour.  His  father  should  have  been  looking  on.  .  .  . 

The  referee  addressed  the  house :  "  These  gentlemen," 
said  he,  indicating  the  pugilists  who,  clad,  the  one  in  a 
purple  dressing-gown,  the  other  in  a  striped  red-and- 
white,  were  awaiting  their  turn, — "  these  gentlemen  have 
come  from  London  to  give  us  fifteen  rounds  of  exhibition 
sparring  —  Queensberry  rules.  Left,  Mr.  O'Gorman ; 
right,  Mr.  Sid  Hobbs." 

As  the  men  walked  into  the  middle  of  the  ring  Harry 
saw  in  a  flash  what  he  must  do.  His  father  was  only 
opposed  to  fighting  because  he  knew  nothing  about  it. 
He  had  never  met  any  boxers ;  he  was  ignorant  of  their 
fine  and  manly  qualities.  It  was  for  Harry  to  enlighten 
him,  and  when  would  he  have  a  better  opportunity?  His 


The  Rolling  Stone 1ST 

mind  was  made  up  on  the  instant.  He  would  persuade, 
cajole,  somehow  induce  the  boxers  to  accompany  him 
home ;  he  would  introduce  them  to  the  family  circle. 

As  soon  as  the  entertainment  was  at  an  end  Harry 
went  up  to  the  men  with  his  request.  His  feats  of 
strength  and  his  boxing  had  made  a  pleasant  impression. 
The}'  were  willing  to  see  more  of  him. 

"  Got  to  catch  the  last  train  back  to  town,"  said 
O'Gorman  good-naturedly. 

"  You'll  have  plenty  of  time." 

"  All  right,  then.  We'll  come  as  soon  as  your  com- 
mittee has  done  with  us." 

The  doorkeeper  touched  Harry's  arm.  "  There's  some 
men  want  to  see  you.  I've  took  'em  along  to  the  dressing- 
room." 

"  Want  to  see  me?  "  Harry,  somewhat  surprised,  hur- 
ried to  the  back  of  the  stage. 

Three  big  weather-beaten  men,  who  looked  out  of  place 
under  a  roof,  were  blocking  the  door.  They  moved  aside 
for  him. 

"  We  thought  we'd  like  to  see  you  about  those  weights." 

Harry  looked  squarely  into  the  speaker's  eyes.  "  Want 
to  test  them?  " 

"Well  .  .  ." 

"  Thought  they  were  faked,  did  you?     Come  on,  then." 

The  smallest  of  the  three  examined  the  dumb-bells.  "  I 
can  carry  four  hundredweight  on  my  back,"  he  said. 
"  I  take  the  bags  of  chemical  manure  down  to  the  fields 
that  way;  less  trouble  than  getting  out  horse  and  cart." 
He  lifted  the  dumb-bells,  he  tested  them,  and  his  manner 
changed.  "  'Tis  right  enough  what  the  young  chap  said," 
and  he  turned  back  to  Harry,  a  new  heartiness  in  his 
tones.  "  Look  here,  you  come  and  play  with  these  toys 


188  The  Rolling  Stone 

over  my  way.  I'm  Jack  Joicey  —  Joicey  and  Sons  of 
Gormeston  —  and  I'll  fill  a  hall  for  'ee.  What  d'vou 
say?  " 

"  I  say  —  that,  if  my  committee  will  agree,  I'll  come 
with  pleasure." 

"  Well  spoken.  Dr.  Ryan's  on  your  committee,  ain't 
he?  I  know  him.  Come  along,  then!  This  day  week, 
and  the  hospital  to  benefit." 

Harry  led  him  to  the  group  about  the  pugilists.  He 
had  heard  vaguely  of  Jack  Joicey,  the  breeder  of  champion 
stock,  the  big  farmer  out  at  Gormeston ;  and,  his  mind 
racing  ahead,  he  saw  himself  one  of  a  troop  of  athletes 
giving  exhibitions  of  strength  now  at  Gormeston,  now  at 
Townley,  perhaps  even  at  Stroud  and  Cirencester. 

As,  having  secured  his  pugilists,  he  walked  off  between 
them,  his  ears  tingled.  "  Never  see  such  lifting  strength 
in  all  my  born  days ! " 


It  was  fortunate  for  Harry  that  Hobbs  and  O'Gorman 
were  actually  the  simple  fellows  for  whom  he  had  taken 
them.  Hobbs  had  been  a  collier,  O'Gorman  was  the  son 
of  a  small  Cornish  farmer.  Both  were  clean-living,  good- 
natured  fellows,  and  they  went  with  Harry  in  the  com- 
fortable belief  that  his  home  would  not  contain  for  them 
any  element  of  surprise. 

In  the  dining-room  at  No.  14  Parkside,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
King  were  preparing,  leisurely  fashion,  to  go  upstairs. 
Mrs.  King  had  folded  and  put  aside  her  work;  Mr.  King 
had  stacked  his  ledgers  on  the  cupboard  to  left  of  the 
fireplace.  But  they  were  in  no  hurry,  for  Richard,  a 
slim,  handsome  figure  in  his  thin  overcoat  and  patent- 
leather  boots,  was  regaling  them  with  an  account  of  his 


The  Rolling  Stone  189 

evening  at  the  vicarage.  Mr.  King  regarded  the  Arch- 
deacon with  unfeigned  respect,  but  it  amused  him  to  hear 
Richard  call  him,  with  affectionate  tolerance,  "  an  old 
windbag." 

"  And  Miss  Margerison  ?  "  asked  his  mother. 

But  if  Richard  could  see  clearly  where  the  father  was 
concerned,  he  had  not  the  same  perspicacity  when  the 
object  was  feminine  and  young.  "  She's  getting  up  a 
penny  reading.  They  need  money  for  the  infants'  Christ- 
mas treat,  and  she  wants  me  to  help  her." 

"And  you  will?" 

"  Well  —  I've  nothing  much  to  do." 

"  How  will  you  help?  "  asked  Mrs.  King. 

"  I'll  sing  one  or  two  songs  —  she  plays  accompaniments 
rather  nicely  —  and  I'll  get  some  of  the  fellows  to  come 
over.  By  the  bye,  you'll  have  to  turn  up." 

"  Oh,  we  will,  my  boy  —  we'll  all  come,"  said  the  father, 
and  Mrs.  King  nodded.  She  would  like  to  see  Richard  — 
Richard  in  evening  dress,  so  slim,  so  elegant,  so  handsome 
—  stand  upon  a  platform  and  sing.  She  would  not  ap- 
plaud but  she  would  listen  to  the  applause  of  others,  and  it 
would  be  to  her  like  rain  falling  softly  on  dry  earth. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "  I'll  come." 

From  the  hall  was  wafted  the  sound  of  an  opening  door, 
of  boots  being  rubbed  on  the  mat,  of  voices. 

"  It's  Henry,"  said  Mr.  King,  "  and  he  has  some  one 
with  him !  He  ought  to  know  better  than  to  bring  people 
in  at  this  time  of  night." 

"  I  expect  it's  only  Jack  Tremaine,"  said  Richard 
easily.  "  Well,  mother,  I'm  hungry ;  they  don't  give  you 
much  to  eat  at  the  vicarage.  I'll  cut  myself  some  bread 
and  cheese.  Do  you  know  if  that  Bass  has  come?  " 

Mr.  King  looked  uneasy.  "  I  don't  like  your  having 
to  drink  beer.  I  don't  think  the  doctor  should  have 


190 The  Rolling  Stone 

ordered  it.  We  never  have  had  any  in  the  house  be- 
fore. .  .  ." 

"  Don't  you  worry,  dad.  It  will  be  all  right."  He 
laid  his  hand  affectionately  for  a  moment  on  his  father's 
shoulder  and  was  passing  on  when  the  door  opened  and 
Harry,  followed  by  the  pugilists,  came  into  the  room. 

"  I've  brought  Mr.  O'Gorman  and  Mr.  Hobbs  to  see 
you,  father,"  he  said. 

The  men  advanced  genially,  but  only  Richard,  smother- 
ing a  sudden  chuckling  conviction  that  this  was  "  a  rare 
old  game,"  realized  who  and  what  they  were.  He  came 
to  the  rescue. 

"The  star  turn!"  he  said.  "Father,  Mr.  O'Gorman 
and  Mr.  Hobbs  have  been  giving  an  exhibition  of  boxing 
at  the  gymnasium  display."  He  turned  to  the  boxers, 
prepossessing  them  with  his  bright,  friendly  smile. 
"That's  so,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  we  have  been  having  a  bit  of  a  mix-up,"  said 
Hobbs;  and  Mr.  King  realized,  with  a  sinking  feeling  at 
the  pit  of  his  stomach,  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  men 
of  a  kind  he  had  all  his  life  abhorred  —  men  of  strange 
powers,  prize-fighters.  He  looked  at  them  covertly  while 
Richard  talked  of  having  seen  O'Gorman  "  get  a  well- 
deserved  verdict  at  Oxford  the  previous  year,"  and  to> 
his  mind  they  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a  pair  of 
Bengal  tigers.  About  them  was  a  general  atmosphere 
of  brightness  and  stripiness:  their  check  overcoats  were 
warmly  toned,  the  waistcoats  and  neckerchiefs  revealed 
when  the  men  seated  themselves  were  different  shades  of 
colour  from  tawny  red  to  yellow,  and  against  the  back- 
ground of  faded  leather  and  dull  wall-paper  they  stood  out 
sharply.  Mr.  King  cursed  the  ever-active  mind  of  his 
youngest  son.  What  had  Henry  been  thinking  of  to 
bring  such  men  home  with  him? 


The  Rolling  Stone  191 

"  Fine  evening,  sir,"  said  Hobbs,  turning  to  his  host, 
and  Mr.  King,  smoothing  his  beard  with  a  nervous  hand, 
stared  at  the  pugilist's  thickened  ear  and  "  hoped  that 
the  display  had  gone  well." 

"  House  was  crammed,  there  wasn't  standing  room," 
boasted  Harry.  "  The  hospital  will  do  well  out  of  us 
this  year.  I  persuaded  Mr.  Hobbs  and  Mr.  O'Gorman 
to  come  back  with  me,  because  I  knew  you  would  like 
to  meet  them." 

"  Delighted,"  said  Mr.  King,  trying  not  to  look  un- 
happy. He  must  be  careful  not  to  irritate  the  tigers, 
not  to  say  anything  to  which  they  could  take  excep- 
tion ;  but  afterwards  —  afterwards  he  would  settle  with 
Henry. 

"  I  knew  you  had  never  met  any  one  who  was  in  the 
ring." 

"  I  have  not  had  that  pleasure,"  and  Mr.  King  shifted 
his  gaze  from  Hobbs 's  thickened  ear  to  the  S  in  the  middle 
of  O'Gorman's  otherwise  handsome  face,  the  S  that  did 
duty  as  a  nose. 

"  So  I  seized  the  opportunity." 

"  Quite  —  er  —  quite  right,  my  boy." 

"Hope  I  see  you  well?"  said  O'Gorman  agreeably. 
King's  father  was  a  funny  old  josser.  Why  hadn't  he 
been  at  the  display?  Perhaps  he  fancied  he  had  a  cold 
in  the  head.  That  sort  of  person  thought  a  cold  mat- 
tered. 

"  I  find  this  weather  a  little  trying,"  said  Mr.  King. 

"  That  accounts  for  it,"  and  Mr.  King  wondered  what 
it  accounted  for  but  didn't  like  to  ask.  "  Nice  little  hall." 

"  Very  nice." 

"  And  your  youngster  gave  us  some  good  sport."  In 
all  probability  the  old  geezer  was  dying  to  know  whether 
his  bantling  had  pulled  it  off. 


192 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Henry  did?  "  Mr.  King  tried  to  simulate  the  interest 
he  was  far  from  feeling. 

"  Yes ;  treated  the  other  chap  to  an  out-and-out  box- 
ing-lesson, he  did.  Mudford  did  bravely  but  it  only  got 
him  a  pummelling.  Your  lad  was  sticking  in,  first  his  left, 
then  his  right;  sticking  them  in  any  liddle  old  place  he 
wanted." 

"I  —  er  —  "  began  Mr.  King.  He  knew  that  he  ought 
to  stand  up  for  his  principles,  and  yet  the  tigers  were 
smiling  at  him  so  amiably  that  it  was  a  temptation  to 
hold  his  peace. 

"  Mudford  was  knocked  out  in  the  ninth  round,"  con- 
tinued O'Gorman.  "  He  was  crossed  on  the  point  —  for- 
got to  lift  his  left  arm  to  fend  it  off,  y'know,  and  they 
counted  him  out." 

"  Ay,"  said  Hobbs,  who  was  a  heavier  and  shorter  man 
with  less  to  say  for  himself,  "  but  he  got  the  referee's  goat 
before  that." 

"  Goat  ?  "  said  the  bewildered  Mr.  King. 

"  Using  his  head,"  explained  Hobbs.  "  Either  he  don't 
know  the  rules  or  he  don't  think  they  should  apply  to  him. 
Referee  thought  they  did,  though." 

"  You  won't  know  him  tomorrow,  father,"  said  Harry 
cheerfully. 

Mr.  King,  struggling  with  himself,  cleared  his  throat. 
Though  the  tigers  ate  him,  it  was  his  duty,  with  a  last 
dying  effort,  to  make  his  position  clear. 

"  I  should  say,"  said  Hobbs  critically,  "  that  Mudford 
lushes  —  " 

"  He  can  neck  it  by  the  half-bottle,"  agreed 
Harry. 

"  He  drinks ! "  said  Mr.  King  severely,  and,  to  his  sur- 
prise, found  that  the  tigers  were  with  him  in  reprobating 
drink. 


The  Rolling  Stone  193 

"  It's  done  in  many  a  good  man,"  said  Hobbs,  shaking 
a  square,  prematurely  grey  head. 

Mr.  King  pulled  himself  together.  The  tigers  were  not 
altogether  tigerish  and  he  must  make  his  stand. 

"  I'm  sorry  my  son  should  have  taken  part  in  this  box- 
ing contest,"  he  said.  He  could  not  look  at  the  men,  for 
his  heart  was  beating  quickly  and  he  was  afraid.  Instead, 
he  studied  the  floral  groups  on  the  new  green  carpet  and 
wondered  anxiously  what  would  happen  next. 

"Ah,"  said  O'Gorman,  "I'm  with  you  there.  The 
young  blighter's  too  good  for  a  one-horse  place  like  this. 
Fighting  is  an  instinct  with  your  boy.  He  fights  with 
passion,  he  does,  and  the  boxer  who  does  that  will  draw 
most  any  man's  bluff.  He'll  go  far." 

"  He's  going  to  be  an  engineer." 

"  Nothing  like  having  a  trade  to  fall  back  on,"  agreed 
the  Cornishman.  "  But,  bar  accidents,  you've  no  call  to 
worry  about  him." 

Richard,  though  he  had  been  enjoying  the  situation, 
thought  it  time  to  intervene.  "  I  expect  you'd  like  a 
drink,"  he  said,  rising. 

Mr.  King  looked  from  Richard  to  his  youngest  son.  It 
was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  say,  "  Not  in  my  house." 

"  I  could  do  with  a  wet,"  said  Hobbs,  getting  to  his 
feet;  and  Mr.  King,  disapproving,  yet  saw  a  gleam  of 
light.  They  would  drink  Richard's  beer  and  then  they 
would  go. 

"  Come  along."  He  led  the  way,  and  the  trusting  tigers 
followed  where  he  led.  They  were  glad  to  leave  the  old 
bloke  behind;  he  wasn't  sporty  —  not  really  what  you 
would  call  sporty. 

"  I  don't  believe,"  said  Hobbs  when  they  were  sitting 
comfortably  about  the  kitchen  table  with  clays  and  beer, 
"  that  your  guv'nor  has  ever  seen  a  slam." 


194 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  That's  going  rather  far,"  returned  Richard  with  a 
half-smile,  and  they  agreed  that  perhaps  it  was.  Even 
Mr.  King  had  been  young  once,  and  young  fellows  gener- 
ally had  a  look  round  before  they  settled  down.  They 
might  not  say  much  about  it  afterwards,  but  that  was 
neither  here  nor  there. 


VI 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  King,  with  the  dining-room  door  shut 
between  themselves  and  the  tigers,  waited  until  returning 
steps  told  them  that  the  men  were  leaving. 

"  Now  we  can  go  to  bed,"  said  Mr.  King  a  little  peev- 
ishly, and  opened  the  door.  Harry,  after  saying  good-bye 
to  the  pugilists,  was  crossing  the  hall ;  he  also  was  on  his 
way  to  bed. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  King  irritably,  "  well,  Henry,  I  can't 
congratulate  you  on  your  friends." 

Until  that  moment  Harry  had  not  known  how  thor- 
oughly disgruntled  he  had  been  by  the  behaviour  of  his 
family.  Their  absence  from  the  display ;  their  lack  of  in- 
terest in  his  performance,  his  success ;  their  disapproval, 
were  so  many  counts  against  them.  At  the  back  of  his 
mind  discontent  with  them  had  been  smouldering.  His 
father's  words,  captious  and  unsympathetic,  proved  the 
little  wind  that  blows  the  embers  into  a  flame.  Suddenly, 
to  his  surprise  and  that  of  Mr.  King,  he  blazed  into  wild 
wrath.  Accusation  and  reproach  tumbled  from  his  lips. 
"But  this  is  the  end.  I'll  stand  no  more  of  it.  You've 
made  a  stranger  of  me.  You've  done  it." 

"  But  —  Henry  —  "  stammered  the  amazed  Mr.  King. 

"  I've  had  enough  of  it  and  I'm  going  now  —  at  once." 
He  swung  about,  snatched  his  hat  from  its  peg,  and,  be- 


The  Rolling  Stone  195 

fore  any  one  could  move  to  prevent  him,  had  opened  the 
front  door  and  was  gone. 

The  sound  of  the  banging  door  reverberated  through 
the  midnight  house.  Mr.  King,  aghast,  looked  at  his 
wife. 

"  You've  done  it  now,"  said  the  snake  he  had  warmed 
in  his  bosom. 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  King,  opening  his  hands  in  a  depre- 
catory gesture,  "I  —  I've  done  nothing." 


Chapter  XII 


D 


4 '  ~J "^  ON'T  you  think  you'd  better  grow  up  a  bit  be- 
fore you  try  to  annex  other  people's  dances  ?  " 
said  a  young  voice  insolently. 

The  occasion  was  a  dance  at  the  Aliens'  house,  Susie's 
first  grown-up  dance ;  and  the  speaker  a  tall,  red-headed 
cousin,  to  whom  Harry  King's  reputation  was  unknown. 
Susie  had  promised  to  dance  No.  20  with  her  old  friend, 
but  this  was  an  extra. 

"  Ewen,  how  can  you !  " 

Harry's  hand  had  clenched,  his  body  had  made  a  swift, 
almost  imperceptible  forward  movement,  and  she  had  seen 
it.  She  was  between  the  two  men,  but  you  could  never 
be  sure  of  Harry,  of  what  he  would  do,  of  where  he  would 
be.  His  face,  as  she  surveyed  it  hastily,  showed  grey 
above  a  shirt  collar  that  was  a  size  too  small.  Susie  mis- 
doubted that  greyness.  He  was  angry.  Perhaps, 
though  Ewen  was  so  big  —  six  foot  three  in  his  stockings 
—  Harry  would  hit  him. 

If  he  hit  him  it  would  mean  a  row,  a  row  at  her  party. 

She  thrilled,  but  at  the  same  time  looked  round  for 
Ralph.  It  would  not  do  to  have  a  row.  Some  of  her 
mother's  friends  were  present,  and  she  must  think  of  their 
middle-aged  susceptibilities.  If  only  Ralph  were  not 
dancing!  He  was  so  sensible,  such  a  man  of  the  world, 
he  always  knew  how  to  deal  with  a  situation;  but  Ralph, 
in  his  short  blue  coat  and  his  gold  lace,  was  waltzing  with 
all  the  jolly  abandon  of  a  sailor.  He  went  past  without 

196 


The  Rolling  Stone  197 

a  glance  for  his  sister,  without  a  thought  that  she  might 
be  in  need  of  him. 

She  had  known  the  men  disliked  each  other.  From  the 
beginning  of  the  evening  their  animus  had  been  evident, 
and  it  was  because  of  her. 

How  wonderful  that  she  would  have  this  power  over 
them !  Harry  and  then  her  cousin  and,  yes,  Bobbie  Chap- 
man, but  Bobbie  didn't  count.  It  was  exciting,  it  went 
to  your  head ;  it  was  the  most  delightful  thing  in  the  world. 
Yet  it  was  difficult  to  believe  you  really  had  it,  that  it 
wasn't  all  play-acting  and  make-believe.  She  had  longed 
to  put  it  to  the  test  but  she  had  not  done  so.  She  had 
been  a  good  girl,  she  had  remembered  "  the  glove  in  the 
lion's  den  "  and  other  stories  of  that  kind,  and  she  had 
behaved  as  if  neither  Harry  nor  Ewen  were  more  to  her 
than  any  other  young  man;  yet  this  had  come  of  it. 

"  Harry ! "  she  said  entreatingly,  and  stretched  a  slim, 
girlish  arm  between  the  men. 

Harry  did  not  hear,  did  not  see  her;  rage  had  swept 
her  out  of  his  thoughts.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  look  on 
the  big  Australian's  face,  felt  nothing  but  a  rush  of  anger. 
He  must  wipe  the  smile  off  that  face.  A  hateful  face, 
the  sort  of  face  a  man  wanted  to  hit.  Nasmyth  had 
crossed  Harry's  path  more  than  once  that  evening,  and 
each  time  Harry's  instinctive  dislike  of  him  had  grown. 
The  mistake  over  the  dances  —  and  Harry  was  certain  he 
was  in  the  right  —  had  brought  matters  to  a  head. 

Harry's  answer  to  the  insult  would  be  made  with  his 
hands.  Anger  was  pushing  him  towards  a  blow,  but  out- 
side the  main  stream  of  his  consciousness  was  a  retarding 
self  that  held  on  to  him,  held  him  back.  Not  now  an4 
not  here.  .  .  . 

His  rage  must  culminate  in  an  explosion,  but  the  explo- 
sion might  be  delayed.  The  retarding  self  was  gaining 


198  The  Rolling  Stone 

power;  it  was  helped  by  the  strangeness  of  the  room,  by 
the  people  present,  by  the  atmosphere  of  cheerful  festivity. 
He  must  not  make  a  scene,  he  would  not. 

"  I'll  meet  you  outside,"  he  said  after  a  pregnant  pause. 

The  Australian  looked  at  him  uncomprehendingly. 
Might  was  right,  and  little  chaps  must  be  taught  their 
place.  As  to  meeting  him  outside,  that,  of  course,  was 
hot  air.  The  fellow  wanted  to  save  his  face. 

"  Come  on,  Susie,"  he  said. 

Susie  was  only  anxious  to  get  away  before  the  storm 
broke.  She  glanced  back  with  an  apologetic  "  It  is  really 
his  dance,  Harry  —  ours  is  the  next,"  and  allowed  herself 
to  be  carried  off. 

Harry  stood  for  a  moment  where  they  had  left  him. 
His  wild  desire  had  steadied  into  purpose.  He  would 
wait  as  long  as  was  necessary. 

"Grow  a  bit?"  He  would  show  Nasmyth  that  height 
was  unimportant,  that  this  intensity  of  feeling,  this  pas- 
sion, the  something  that  put  a  sting  into  blows,  that  gave 
a  man  dominance,  had  nothing  to  do  with  size.  He  would 
do  more  than  that:  he  would  knock  him  out.  The  man 
had  dared  to  belittle  him,  to  make  him  of  no  account.  He 
had  belittled  him  before  a  woman,  and  there  was  only  one 
way  in  which  to  wipe  off  the  insult. 

Avoiding,  without  consciousness  of  them,  the  gyrating 
couples,  he  walked  towards  the  door.  It  was  the  only  door 
of  the  room,  and  out  of  it  Ewen  Nasmyth  must  eventually 
come.  Harry  would  wait  for  him  in  the  hall. 

June  nights  are  short  and  it  was  already  late.  Some 
of  the  guests  had  left  and  others  were  preparing  to  go. 
Harry  found  his  one-time  henchman,  Jack  Tremaine,  wait- 
ing by  the  hall  door. 

"  I  want  you." 


The  Rolling  Stone 199 

On  leaving  home  Harry  had  taken  a  room  in  the  house 
of  Tremaine's  widowed  mother,  and  the  fact  of  their  friend- 
ship accounted  for  the  extension  of  Mrs.  Allen's  invita- 
tion to  the  young  engineer. 

"  I'm  waiting  for  Bet." 

"  Oh,  let  Bet  alone  for  once ;  I  want  you."  He  was 
willing  that  Tremaine  should  become  a  member  of  his 
family,  but  the  long  courtship  must  not  be  allowed  to  in- 
terfere with  his  arrangements. 

"  I  promised  Mrs.  King  I'd  see  her  home." 

Bet,  a  fleecy  white  wrap  round  her  vivid  face,  came  out 
of  the  cloakroom.  To  Harry  she  was  not  a  sonsie  young 
woman  but  an  obstacle. 

"  Why  are  you  going  so  early?  " 

"Early?  Why,  it's  gone  three,  and  mother  said  I 
wasn't  to  stay  until  the  end ;  it  doesn't  look  well."  Why 
were  Harry's  eyes  so  fierce?  What  had  happened? 

"  Look  ?  "  His  words  came  tumbling.  "  You  are  al- 
ways thinking  of  appearances.  Who  do  you  suppose  is 
noticing  how  long  you  stay  or  when  you  go  ?  " 

The  stimulus  of  a  happy  evening  kept  her  sweet.  What 
was  the  matter?  Some  trifle!  Anyway,  it  didn't  con- 
cern her.  All  she  wanted  was  to  go  into  the  white  night 
with  Jack,  to  walk  with  him  under  the  paling  stars  and 
listen  to  the  queer  ups  and  downs  of  his  voice,  to  the  ac- 
cent that  grew  more  marked  when  he  forgot  himself,  as 
he  did  when  alone  with  her. 

"  I  want  Jack  —  want  him  to  stay  here." 

"  Oh,  no,  Henry !  "  Throughout  the  happy  evening  she 
had  been  looking  forward  to  their  walk  home. 

"  It's  only  a  step  from  here  to  our  house." 

"  But  mother  said  ..." 

"  You  run  along  by  yourself."     He  took  her  lightly 


200 The  Rolling  Stone 

by  the  shoulders,  and  before  her  resistance  had  become 
definite  or  Tremaine,  big  and  slow,  could  come  to  the  res- 
cue, he  had  her  across  the  threshold. 

"  I've  an  account  to  settle,"  he  vouchsafed,  as  he  shut 
the  door  between  the  disappointed  man  and  maid.  "  I 
may  want  your  help." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  if  that's  it ! "  For  a  moment  he  had 
felt  ugly.  It  was  outrageous  that  Harry  should  prevent 
him  taking  Bet  home;  but  if  there  were  need  of  his  serv- 
ices, real  need,  it  was  a  different  matter.  He  thought  of 
Bet  walking  buoyantly  away,  her  blue  skirts  lifted  from 
the  dust  of  the  road.  His  heart  followed  her.  But  for 
him  and  her  remained  all  the  nights  in  all  the  years  till  life 
should  end ;  he  might  spare  this  to  Harry  —  not  very 
willingly,  but  he  would. 

Mrs.  Allen,  crossing  the  hall  on  the  arm  of  Tom  Drum- 
mond,  the  man  she  was  going  to  marry,  caught  sight  of 
the  two  young  men. 

"Not  dancing,  Harry?"  That  so  vigorous  a  per- 
former should  be  standing  idle  struck  her  as  odd.  He 
looked,  too,  as  if  something  had  disagreed  with  him.  His 
thick  eyebrows  were  meeting  in  an  obtuse  angle  over  nar- 
rowed eyelids;  it  gave  him  a  Mongolian  look.  She  had 
seen  the  same  look  on  Mr.  King's  face,  had  learnt  to  re- 
gard it  as  a  storm-signal.  It  was  extraordinary,  she 
thought,  how  like  Harry  was  to  his  father. 

The  quick  shuttle  of  her  thoughts  flew  back.  The 
young  man's  attitude  was  tense  and  Tremaine  was  looking 
uneasy.  What  had  happened?  Harry  was  good-natured, 
easy.  The  consciousness  of  his  unusual  strength  made 
him  careful.  There  were  times,  however,  when  the  best- 
tempered  man  takes  offence.  If  Susie,  for  instance,  had 
shown  a  ballroom  preference  .  .  . 

One  could  not  deny  that  Harry  was  a  rough  diamond. 


The  Rolling  Stone 201 

Where  had  he  bought  his  evening  suit?  And  had  he  got 
it  ready-made?  It  looked  ready-made;  it  rucked  at  the 
neck  and  was  too  tight  across  the  shoulders.  And  who 
was  responsible  for  his  shirts?  That  which  he  was  wear- 
ing bulged  at  one  side.  And  oh,  if  he  hadn't  put  grease 
on  his  hair !  The  crest  of  strong  curls  that  had  been  so 
characteristic  was  gone ;  his  hair  was  sleeked  back  —  it 
shone,  softly,  greasily.  .  .  . 

A  red  curtain  hung  across  the  front  door,  framing  the 
two  young  men.  In  spite  of  Harry's  ill-fitting  suit,  badly 
laundered  shirt  and  murdered  locks,  there  was  something 
about  his  face  .  .  .  Mrs.  Allen  perceived  it,  considered 
it.  One  had  to  distinguish  between  the  unimportant  and 
this  something. 

Not  that  she  wanted  Susie  to  take  him  seriously.     The 
girl  was  only  seventeen.     Time  enough. 
"  I  am  waiting  for  some  one." 

If  he  were  waiting  for  a  dancing  partner,  the  hall  door 
was  hardly  the  place;  but  Mrs.  Allen  saw  she  was  not  to 
be  taken  into  his  confidence. 

"  By  the  bye,"  she  said,  beginning  to  move  away,  "  there 
is  that  horoscope.  Did  you  remember  to  ask  Mrs.  King 
what  time  of  the  day  you  were  born?  " 

In  the  ballroom  the  music  had  ceased,  and  some  couples 
were  seeking  the  cooler  atmosphere  of  the  stairs.  "  I 
don't  think  so,"  said  Harry  vaguely.  His  eyes  were  on 
the  bright  oblong  of  the  door.  At  any  moment  Nasmyth's 
red  head  might  show  above  the  stream. 

Jack  Tremaine  turned  a  surprised  face  upon  his  friend. 
"  Why,  you  asked  Mrs.  King  last  night,  I  heard  you,  and 
she  said  —  she  said  — "  he  could  not  remember,  "  I  think 
she  said  Harry  was  born  October  20." 

"  Harry,"  said  Mrs.  Allen  dryly,  "  must  know  the  date 
of  his  own  birthday." 


202 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  I  was  born  October  17,  1874." 

"  Yes,  and  your  mother  said  —  I  have  it  now  —  at  half- 
past  three  in  the  afternoon.  She  said  you  came  in  a  hurry 
and  have  been  in  a  hurry  ever  since." 

"  Thank  you."  Mrs.  Allen  made  a  mental  note  of  hour 
and  day.  "  It  is  some  time  since  I've  drawn  a  horoscope. 
I  got  the  ephemeris  yesterday  but  could  not  do  anything 
more  until  I  knew  the  time." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  horoscopes?  "  Tremaine,  in  the 
dark  as  to  Harry's  wishes  and  expectations,  saw  no  harm 
in  continuing  the  conversation.  Mrs.  Allen  was  a  pleas- 
ant lady,  he  thought  her  quite  beautiful,  and  it  was  dull 
work  standing  by  till  Harry  should  make  a  move. 

"  I  ?  Oh,  I  neither  believe  nor  disbelieve.  They  are 
drawn  according  to  certain  empirical  rules,  and  no  doubt 
those  rules  were  framed  by  shrewd  observers  who  had 
noticed  that,  given  certain  conditions,  certain  results  fol- 
low. I  find  it  surprising  how  often  horoscopes  hit  the  nail 
on  the  head.  Still,  they  don't  cover  much  ground.  ..." 

The  opening  bars  of  "  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly  "  smote 
on  Harry's  consciousness.  Not  much  longer  now.  He 
heard  Mr.  Drummond's  "  You  promised  to  dance  this  with 
me,  Ursula,"  and  was  relieved  to  see  Mrs.  Allen  led  away. 
She  paused,  however,  on  the  threshold  of  the  ballroom, 
paused  to  glance  back  at  them. 

"  Won't  you  let  me  find  you  partners  for  this  ?  It's  the 
last,  you  know,"  and  if  Harry  had  not  intervened,  Tre- 
maine would  have  gone. 

"  All  right,  then,"  he  said,  yielding  to  the  pressure  of 
Harry's  hand,  "  but  just  let  me  look  in."  He  moved  to 
the  door,  and  his  glance  embraced  the  large  bright  room. 
Long  rows  of  men  and  girls  were  forming  down  the  sides*, 
but  there  appeared  to  be  a  hitch.  Susie  Allen  was  sitting 
partnerless  by  the  piano ;  she  seemed  to  be  waiting.  He 


The  Rolling  Stone  203 

saw  Bobbie  Chapman  go  up  to  her,  saw  her  rise  reluctantly 
and,  with  a  glance  towards  the  door,  take  her  place  among 
the  others. 

Susie  was  asking  herself  whether  Harry  were  offended, 
and  Harry,  waiting  impatiently  until  the  dance  should  be 
over,  had  forgotten. 

"  Another  drink  and  I  must  be  off,"  said  Nasmyth  to 
young  Allen  as  the  music  stopped. 

"  Where  are  you  sleeping?  " 

"  At  the  '  Crown.'  "  They  turned  into  the  room,  now 
deserted,  in  which  light  refreshments  had  been  served,  and 
there  Harry  came  up  with  them. 

"  You  have  to  settle  with  me,"  he  said,  and  his  words, 
long  withheld,  fell  like  tiny  blows.  He  was  not  offensive, 
but  the  look  of  him,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  was  enough 
for  Allen. 

"Hullo,  what's  up?" 

Nasmyth,  having  done  with  Harry,  found  the  fact  of 
his  continued  existence  surprising.  As  for  settling  with 
him,  what  did  he  mean?  "  Oh,  come  ..." 

"  You  have  kept  me  waiting." 

"  My  dear  chap,  the  thing  is  over  and  done  with."  He 
was  in  no  mood  for  scrapping.  "  Here,  Allen,  make  this 
chap  hear  reason." 

"  Don't  barge  in,  Allen ;  it's  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

"  This  is  my  mother's  house." 

"  Very  well,  then,  we'll  go  outside." 

"  But,  confound  it  all,"  said  Nasmyth,  "  you  can't  make 
a  serious  quarrel  out  of  it !  " 

"I'm  in  dead  earnest."  With  his  open  hand  Harry 
struck  him  smartly  across  the  cheek,  and  the  impact  of 
those  four  hard  fingers  left  a  red  and  angry  mark.  '  Now 
will  vou  fight?  " 

Allen  stepped  between  the  men.     "Outside,"  he  said, 


204 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  outside.  Here,  the  garden  is  this  way."  Drawing  back 
a  curtain,  he  threw  open  the  French  window.  "  Why,  it's 
daylight ! " 

The  garden  lay  before  them,  deserted  and  dewy  —  a 
stretch  of  lawn,  paths  that  wound  among  beds  of  roses 
and  under  nut-  and  apple-trees.  "  The  drying-ground,  I 
think,"  he  said  shortly,  "  it  is  farther  away."  He  led 
them  to  a  summer-house  white-walled  and  thatched. 
"  Tremaine,  your  man  can  have  the  tool-shed.  We'll  join 
you  on  the  grass." 

The  big  Australian  was  very  angry.  At  the  end  of  an 
evening's  entertainment  why  should  he  have  to  teach  a 
little  hop-o'-my-thumb  manners?  First  the  chap  tried  to 
do  him  out  of  one  of  his  dances,  then  he  made  himself  of- 
fensive. Wanted  a  lesson,  did  he?  Well,  it  was  coming 
to  him.  Nasmyth  put  a  hand  to  his  smarting  cheek. 
"  I  suppose  you  can  box,  Ewen?  " 

"  A  bit !  "  He  could  box  more  than  a  bit.  "  You  got 
a  set  of  gloves?  " 

"  King  doesn't  mean  fighting  with  gloves." 
"  Doesn't   he  ?  "     He    found   this    statement    puzzling. 
"Can  he  fight?" 

"  The  people  about  here  think  he  can."  Ralph,  a  naval 
officer,  had  not  spent  much  time  in  the  railway  town;  he 
had  not  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  Harry  box.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  had  known  him  all  his  life,  while  Ewen 
Nasmyth,  though  his  cousin,  was  almost  a  stranger.  Ewen 
was  finely  built ;  he  certainly  looked  as  if  he  could  do  Harry 
in.  For  the  honour  of  the  family  Ralph  hoped  that  he 
might. 

"Light  weight?" 
"  No,  heavy." 
"You  don't  say?" 


The  Rolling  Stone 205 

"  Scales  at  thirteen  stone.  He's  an  amateur,  of  course, 
but  they  tell  me  he's  pretty  good." 

Nasmyth  did  not  doubt  the  issue.  Six-foot-three  with 
science  and  some  experience  in  the  ring,  against  provin- 
cial five-foot-six.  But  to  give  the  little  chap  a  thrashing 
might  take  longer  than  he  had  supposed. 

Allen  led  the  way  to  the  drying-ground,  and  at  the 
same  moment  Harry,  followed  by  Tremaine,  emerged  from 
the  earthy  obscurity  of  the  tool-shed.  The  Australian 
had  not  bothered  to  remove  more  than  his  outer  garments, 
but  Harry  was  naked  to  the  waist. 

"  Fancies  himself !  "  said  Nasmyth,  and,  throwing  back 
his  head,  swaggered  across  the  grass.  "  Look  here,"  he 
cried  in  his  loud,  overbearing  voice,  as  the  two  parties  met 
between  the  posts  of  the  drying-lines,  "  this  is  a  boxing 
match.  We  aren't  fighting  for  our  lives." 

The  sun's  rim  was  over  the  edge  of  the  world.  The 
yellow  light  fell  on  Harry's  massively  boned  face,  on  the 
narrow  eyes  and  implacable  mouth.  "  I  shall  kill  you 
if  I  can." 

Nasmyth  experienced  a  slight  shock,  but  he  had  met 
other  men  who  tried  to  scare  their  opponents  by  their 
ferocity.  "With  your  mouth?"  he  asked. 

He  was  not  prepared  for  what  followed.  Ralph  had 
told  him  that  Harry  was  quick,  but  his  quickness  proved 
phenomenal.  It  was  as  if  a  whirlwind  had  broken  loose. 
The  Australian,  like  most  heavy-weights,  was  slow,  and 
he  soon  found  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  going.  At 
the  end  of  the  first  round  his  right  eye  was  badly  gashed 
and  he  was  bleeding  from  the  lips  and  nose.  When  Ralph, 
the  self-appointed  referee,  called  "  Time,"  he  leaned  up 
against  a  drying-post  feeling  dazed.  The  little  chap  — 
but  somehow,  seen  without  those  countrified  evening  clothes 


206  The  Rolling  Stone 

he  did  not  look  small,  only  short ;  and  that  chest !  Nas« 
myth  was  still  angry,  but  not  altogether  with  Harry. 
What  had  they  quarrelled  about?  He  couldn't  remember. 
Oh,  yes  —  Susie.  Curse  Susie !  she  wasn't  worth  this  — 
this  — 

What  was  it  the  fellow  had  said?  He  had  threatened 
him  —  threatened  to  kill  him?  Mere  words,  of  course, 
but  those  blows  of  his,  there  was  a  sting  in  them,  he  hit  to 
hurt,  and  his  eyes  —  they  were  hard,  revoltingly  hard, 
hard  as  the  hobs  of  hell. 

Time  was  up  and  Harry  had  started  anew  on  his  re- 
lentless attack.  Nasmyth  had  some  skill  at  stalling,  but 
the  swift  pace,  coupled  with  the  constant  pummelling  be- 
gan to  tell  on  him. 

To  the  onlookers  it  had  been  evident  from  the  first  that 
he  was  out-boxed,  evident  too  that  Harry  was  fighting  not 
merely  to  win.  When  Nasmyth  got  back  to  his  corner  at 
the  end  of  the  round  the  conviction  had  been  forced  upon 
him  that  King  had  meant  what  he  said. 

He  was  out  to  do  him  serious  bodily  injury.  Unsports- 
manlike —  but  words  had  no  power  with  such  as  King. 
"  I  will  kill  you  if  I  can,"  he  had  said. 

Amazing !  The  chap  had  meant  it.  For  a  thoughtless 
phrase  of  an  hour  ago  the  fellow  was  out  to  kill,  to  kill 
not  just  anybody,  but  Ewen  Nasmyth.  His  blows  meant 
that,  and  they  were  the  utterance  of  his  will. 

Nasmyth  stared  about  him  —  at  the  morning  sky,  the 
quiet  garden,  the  low  fruit-laden  trees.  Impossible  that 
here,  in  nineteenth-century  civilized  England,  he  should 
be  up  against  it ;  he  must  be  dreaming. 

Into  his  mind  slipped  a  memory  of  the  quay-side  at 
Sydney.  A  man  had  been  ill-treating  a  dog  —  his  dog, 
and  he  could  do  as  he  pleased  with  it ;  but  Curzon,  Dandy 
Curzon  the  Irish  welter-weight,  had  said  "  No."  They 


The  Rolling  Stone 207 

hi*d  fought,  and  Curzon  had  killed  his  man  —  killed  him 
out  there  in  the  road,  killed  him  with  his  hands.  He  had 
been  sentenced  to  penal  servitude  for  life,  but  what  was  the 
good  of  that?  The  man  was  dead. 

These  things  happened. 

They  happened  to  other  men,  it  could  not  be  that  they 
were  happening  to  him,  that  the  lust  to  slay  had  looked 
at  him  out  of  King's  eyes?  It  —  it  was  all  bunkum. 

What  was  Ralph  saying? 

Time  was  not  up?  Not  yet,  surely  not?  Well  then, 
he  must  go.  And  King?  The  brute  was  as  fresh  as  paint ! 
Nasmyth  fell  into  wild,  childish  fury.  The  law  would 
avenge  him.  In  this  case  there  were  no  extenuating  cir- 
cumstances. Men  would  hang  King  —  hang  him,  hang 
him,  hang  him.  .  .  . 

Yes,  but  before  that  .  .  . 

A  man  has  only  one  life. 

King  must  be  mad.  Why  didn't  the  others  see  it  and  in- 
terfere? 

His  —  life. 

He  could  preserve  it  if  he  would  pay  the  price.  What 
did  the  price  matter? 

He  was  lying  on  the  ground.  King  was  standing  over 
him.  The  blow  had  not  been  a  knock-out  —  a  left-arm 
jolt  to  the  point,  delivered  when  he  was  going  away.  It 
had  hardly  touched  him  —  still,  he  preferred  to  lie  where 
he  was. 

"  Come  on,  you  beggar.     Get  up.     Let's  get  on  with  it. 

Fight!" 

Nasmyth  threw  his  arm  over  his  face.     As  long  as  he  lay 

there  he  was  safe. 

"Get  up  and  I'll  jab  you  again.  What,  you  don't 
want  any  more?  No  fight  in  a  big  chap  like  you?  What 
an  old  Mary  Ann  'tis." 


208 The  Rolling  Stone 

Tremaine  came  up  to  them.     "  He's  down  and  out." 
But  Harry  waited,  waited  hopefully.     His  anger  was 
mellowing  into  contempt,  but  still  he  hoped;  and  as  long 
as  he  waited  the  Australian  lay  where  he  had  fallen. 
"  It's  domino,"  said  the  naval  officer,  "  no  guts." 
The  fight  was  over.     As  Nasmyth,  walking  groggily, 
was  led  away,  the  corner  of  a  blind  that  had  been  curled 
back  from   an  upper  room  fell  into  place.     Once  more 
Susie  had  been  looking  out  of  a  window  at  Harry. 

Her  feet  and  hands  and  the  tip  of  her  little  nose  were 
cold,  for  she  was  insufficiently  clad  in  a  nightgown;  and 
it  may  have  been  to  warm  herself  that  she  pirouetted  across 
the  floor  to  her  bed.  It  may  have  been,  but  as  she  danced 
she  sang  in  a  small  voice,  sang  very  softly,  for  her  mother 
slept  in  the  next  room. 

"  He  did  it  for  me,  Harry  did,  for  me  —  for  me  —  for 
me! " 

II 

"  Phineas  used  to  say  marriage  was  Nature's  way," 
remarked  Mrs.  Allen,  "  of  bringing  each  generation  back 
to  a  sane  mediocrity." 

"  Levelling  up  and  down,"  said  Mr.  Drummond,  who 
was  contentedly  puffing  at  his  pipe. 

Mrs.  Allen  had  been  making  calculations,  first  in  black 
ink,  then  in  red,  on  the  ephemeris  of  Harry  King's  horo- 
scope. She  laid  the  penholder  in  the  old  Indian  dish 
and  leaned  both  elbows  on  the  table.  She  was  tired  and 
wanted  the  refreshment  of  idle  talk. 

"  I  suppose  that  is  why  clever  men  marry  congenital 
idiots,"  she  said,  speaking  as  one  who  had  suffered,  "  and 
strong  men  —  "  she  paused,  her  glance  seeking  the  horo- 
scope, "  strong  men  select  delicate  women.  Nature  abhors 
the  superhuman." 


The  Rolling  Stone 209 

"  Well,  I  should  say  so." 

"  Ah,  but  not  only  in  brains,  in  every  walk  of  life.  Now 
this  young  King  is  unusual.  ..." 

"  Forearm  of  an  ox !  " 

"  Oxes  —  I  mean  oxen  —  don't  have  forearms ;  but  he 
is  one  in  a  thousand." 

"  He  has  got  to  prove  that  he  is." 

"  He'll  do  that  all  right,  and  meanwhile  I  say  it  and, 
for  the  sake  of  argument,  you  agree  with  me." 

"  Have  it  your  own  way." 

"  Very  well.  Now  what  will  happen  ?  When  he  mar- 
ries he'll  choose  a  woman  as  much  below  the  average  in 
constitution  —  health,  you  know  —  as  he's  above  it.  Na- 
ture will  see  to  it  that  he  does.  She  doesn't  want  a  race 
of  kings,  she  wants  average  people  —  ordinary,  every- 
day men  and  women." 

"  But  he  seems  to  like  Susie  and  she's  all  right." 

"  He  won't  marry  Susie." 

"Why  shouldn't  he?" 

"  He's  running  after  her,"  said  Mrs.  Allen  thought- 
fully, "  because  other  people  are  and  he  can't  see  a  man 
running  without  wanting  to  race  him.  I  don't  think  he 
really  cares  for  Susie,  not,"  she  smiled  at  him  and  the 
lines  of  her  face  took  an  upward  curve,  "  not  as  I  do, 
Tom." 

"  You're  a  peach,"  he  said  irrelevantly. 

"  I  don't  want  him  to ;  I  don't  think  he  would  make  her 
happy."  She  took  up  the  horoscope.  "  It  isn't  that  I 
believe  in  this,  but  that  it  coincides  with  what  I  have  ob- 
served. Since  he  began  to  come  here,  Tom,  I've  been 
watching  him  — •  " 

"  Trust  you !  " 

"  At  the  time  of  his  birth,"  she  referred  to  her  calcula- 
tions, "  the  sun  occupied  Libra  and  the  moon  was  in  Cap- 


210  The  Rolling  Stone 

ricorn,  while  Neptune  was  in  the  ascendant  and  Jupiter 
ruled  the  mid-heaven." 

Mr.  Drummond  waited  contentedly.  Behind  this  ver- 
biage lay  the  gold  of  Ursula's  conclusions. 

"  And  that  means  Neptune  is  his  ruling  planet.  Nep- 
tune is  elusive,  it  brings  the  unusual  and  unexpected  into 
the  lives  of  those  it  rules.  I  have  noticed  that  Harry 
thinks  one  thing  today  and  one  tomorrow,  that  his  mind 
is  restless  and  carries  him  along  at  a  tremendous  rate,  that 
he  lives  in  the  moment ;  and  this  explains  it."  She  was 
not  altogether  in  earnest  over  this  matter  of  the  horo- 
scope, did  not  want  him  to  think  she  was,  still  it  was  in- 
teresting that  it  should  confirm  her  observations.  "  Nep- 
tune is  the  planet  of  fitfulness  and  impermanence,  of  little 
weaknesses,  petty  meannesses  —  " 

Her  Tom  showed  a  placid  interest.     "  And  King?  " 

"  He  is  a  nomad,  here  today  and  gone  tomorrow.  Ac- 
cording to  this  there  is  no  permanence  in  his  life  and  never 
will  be." 

"Humph!" 

"  The  sun  is  passing  through  Scorpio,  and  that  means 
toil  and  struggle.  He'll  roam  the  world  on  one  adventure 
after  another." 

"  Not  a  bad  sort  of  life." 

"  A  life  of  perpetual  struggle  —  oh,  Tom !  " 

"  A  life  of  adventure,  my  dear !  " 

"  What  a  boy  you  are  still !  "  They  exchanged  a  look 
and  she  returned  to  the  subject  occupying  her  thoughts. 

"  His  circumstances  ought  to  improve  about  1910,  and 
then  he  will  be,  let  me  see,  how  old?  He  was  born  in  '74." 

"  Thirty-six." 

"  Until  then  he  won't  be  able  to  keep  a  wife,"  and  she 
smiled,  well  pleased. 

"  That  isn't  to  say  he  won't  have  one." 


The  Rolling  Stone  211 

"  N-no ;  still  I  hope,  if  he  does,  that  it  won't  be  Susie. 
According  to  this,  it  won't.  The  sign  Virgo  is  on  the  cusp 
of  his  house  of  marriage,  which  shows  that  his  affinity  has 
her  Sun  posited  in  that  sign  and  that  her  birthday  should 
be  between  August  21  and  September  21  —  Susie  was  born 
in  March." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  attach  some  weight  to  these  prognos- 
tications." He  knocked  out  his  pipe  on  the  edge  of  the 
fender. 

"  You  mean  I  believe  what  I  want  to  believe?  But  be- 
lief with  me  is  a  thing  of  layers.  Under  the  layers  is  a 
depth  of  scepticism  that  goes,  as  the  nigger  said,  *  all  de 
way  down.'  There  is  just  one  thing  about  this  horo- 
scope ..." 

"  I  want,"  said  Tom  mildly,  "  I  want  you  to  come  round 
the  garden  with  me." 

"  What  an  out-of-doors  man  you  are.  One  moment, 
dear." 

"Well?" 

"  It's  curious  that,  given  what  we  know  of  Harry,  his 
knack  of  creating  a  situation  wherever  he  goes  —  you  re- 
member poor  Ewen?  —  that  the  horoscope  should  predict 
for  him  a  life  of  cataclysms,  great  success  and  heavy  re- 
verses, alternate  poverty  and  riches." 

"  Yes,  it  is  certainly  odd." 

"  I  haven't  faked  it  in  any  way.  Any  one  given  these 
data,  who  knew  how  to  calculate  a  horoscope  would  give 
a  similar  reading." 

"  It  may  not  come  true." 

"  And  yet  it  may,  Mr.  Doubting  Thomas.  Anyway 
the  years  between  forty-five  and  fifty-five  should  be 
crucial.  With  Jupiter,  beneficent  old  Jupiter,  ruling  the 
mid-heaven  conjunct  with  the  Sun,  there  is  no 
may  rise  to  any  height,  do  anything." 


212  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  And  all's  well  that  ends  well.  Now,  my  dear,  let's 
go  for  a  stroll  round  the  garden." 

In  the  round  white  summer-house  were  casements  filled 
with  diamond  panes,  casements  that  opened  outward;  and 
the  couple,  approaching  it  by  way  of  the  shrubbery, 
caught  sight  of  something  small  and  black  that  was 
perched  on  the  sill. 

"  Look  —  there  is  one  of  Susie's  bantams,"  said  Mrs. 
Allen. 

"  And  where  the  bantams  are  ..." 

A  sound  of  hammering  came  from  the  summer-house. 
"  And  where  Susie  is  ..."  amended  Mr.  Drummond  with 
a  smile. 

Through  the  glass  door  of  the  summer-house,  the  in- 
terior, lined  with  brown  wood,  showed  darkly  clear. 
Harry  King,  using  the  iron  table  as  a  bench,  was  mend- 
ing a  chicken-coop,  while  Susie,  in  the  low  chair  that  had 
been  hers  since  nursery  days,  sat  looking  on.  She  watched 
but  her  little  hands  were  busy.  She  was  crocheting,  with 
fine  cotton  and  a  slim,  active  needle,  a  strip  of  lace.  Up- 
stairs in  a  drawer  —  her  bottom  drawer  —  she  had  other 
strips,  some  wide,  some  narrow,  but  all  fine.  She  spent 
the  long,  dreamy  leisure  of  her  girlhood  crocheting  this 
lace.  When  she  became  engaged  her  mother  would  supply 
her  with  material  as  fine,  with  delicate  cambric,  linen  of 
which  the  threads  could  hardly  be  seen,  and  she  would 
turn  them  into  clothing,  ornament  them  with  cobwebby 
crochet  —  with  some  of  it,  but  not  with  the  filmiest  rolls, 
not  with  the  very  lightest  and  softest,  no.  And  when  she 
was  married  she  would  carry  with  her  to  her  husband's 
house  these  miracles  of  stitchery,  these  white  garments 
which  were  embodied  hope ;  and  under  them,  at  the  very 
bottom  of  her  trunk  and  wrapped  in  tissue-paper,  would 
lie  the  soft  reserve  of  lace.  No  one  would  speak  to  her 


The  Rolling  Stone 213 

about  it,  she  would  not  even  speak  of  it  to  herself;  but 
she  would  know  it  was  there. 

Susie,  from  her  low  cane-chair,  was  looking  across  the 
iron  table,  looking  at  Harry.  To  do  so  was  a  satisfactory 
way  of  passing  the  time.  She  liked  to  look  at  his  black 
hair  —  hair  so  strong  that  it  could  not  lie  down  unless  he 
tamed  it  with  brilliantine.  She  liked  the  oblique  setting 
of  his  eyes.  Other  people's  eyes  did  not  go  up  at  the 
outer  corners.  Harry's,  too,  were  so  bright,  so  intent. 
She  had  been  looking  at  him  for  quite  a  long  time  and 
never  once  had  he  met  her  glance. 

If  only  he  had  not  been  going  to  India !  She  saw  it 
as  a  place  full  of  wild  beasts  and  mutinous  blacks.  Why 
couldn't  he  be  content  to  stay  in  England?  He  had  told 
her  he  wanted  scope ;  but  he  was  doing  well.  Mr.  Drum- 
mond  had  said  that  for  his  age  Harry  was  doing  unusually 
well.  Why  must  he  go  rushing  off  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth? 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  have  only  got  these  two  hens,"  said 
Harry,  as  the  bantam  which  had  been  enjoying  a  dust- 
bath  under  the  fixed  wooden  seat,  got  up  and  shook  her 
feathers.  "  You  want  a  cock." 

"Why  do  I?  "said  Susie. 

"  Er  — "  Harry  found  the  explanation  beyond  him, 
"  people  never  have  hens  without  cocks,  you  know." 

"  They  don't  seem  to."  Susie  considered  the  matter. 
"  But  the  little  hens  seem  happy  as  they  are,  and  cocks 
are  so  quarrelsome.  If  I  got  one  he  might  ill-treat 
them." 

"  He  wouldn't."  Harry  twisted  a  screw  into  place. 
It  seemed  a  pity  there  should  never  be  any  downy  little 
chicks.  He  was  sorry  for  the  spinster  hens.  "  It's  dull 
for  them,"  he  said  at  last.  "  You'd  find  it  dull,  Susie,  if 
no  young  men  ever  came  to  the  house." 


214  The  Rolling  Stone 

Susie  looked  at  him  with  astonished,  wide-open  eyes. 
"  But  chickens  aren't  like  us." 

"Why  not?" 

She  was  puzzled.  There  was,  of  course,  the  difference 
that  she  was  a  human  being  and  the  bantams  were  only 
birds,  but  that  was  self-evident.  "  Well,  they  can't  talk," 
she  said,  and  warmed  a  little.  "  People  —  men,  you  know 
—  come  here  in  order  to  sit  and  talk  to  us." 

"And  is  that  all?" 

"  Ye-es,"  she  said  a  little  uncertainly,  "  that  —  that's 
all.  ..." 

Harry  gave  it  up.  It  was  all  right  that  girls  like  Susie 
should  be  ignorant,  just  as  it  was  that  they  should  be 
chaperoned ;  it  set  them  apart,  was  like  the  bloom  on  the 
grape.  The  winds  must  not  blow  on  them,  nor  the  rain 
fall.  He  admired  this  guarded  ignorance,  but  felt  that 
from  one  point  of  view  —  that  of  companionship  —  it 
left  something  to  be  desired.  Still,  you  mustn't  expect  too 
much. 

Mrs.  Allen  opened  the  summer-house  door.  "  I've  fin- 
ished your  horoscope,  Harry.  You'll  find  it  on  the  blot- 
ter in  the  morning-room." 

He  paused,  screwdriver  in  hand,  and  thanked  her. 
"  What  do  you  make  of  it  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly.  This  was 
interesting;  it  concerned  Harry  King. 

"  That  you  are  a  rover,  that  change  is  the  breath  of 
life  to  you." 

«  Ah ! " 

"  That  you  will  roll  all  round  the  habitable  globe,  that 
you  will  never  settle  down  for  long."  She  became  aware 
of  Susie's  anxious  eyes  and  changed  the  subject:  "  When 
are  you  going  to  London  ?  " 

"  As  soon  as  I  can  get  my  clothes  —  and  that  reminds 


The  Rolling  Stone  215 

me,  I'm  due  at  the  tailor's."  He  began  to  clear  up  the 
accumulation  of  tools  and  wood. 

"  You  haven't  finished  the  coop,"  said  Susie  plaintively. 

"  I'll  do  it  tomorrow." 

She  went  with  him  through  the  house,  open,  back  and 
front,  to  the  warm  June  air,  and  though  he  was  in  a  hurry, 
he  did  not  forget  the  horoscope.  Mrs.  Allen  was  a  good 
sort.  It  was  difficult  to  impress  some  people  —  notably 
his  brothers  and  sisters  —  but  she  seemed  to  realize  that 
he  was  more  than  just  one  young  man  among  many,  that 
he  would  do  —  what?  He  did  not  yet  know.  Well,  no 
matter.  The  world  was  big  and  the  future  was  big;  it 
lay  before  him  like  a  cake,  he  had  only  to  choose  where 
he  would  cut. 

He  congratulated  himself  on  having  drawn  out  his  sav- 
ings and  ordered  himself  a  suit  of  clothes,  the  best  pro- 
curable in  the  railway  town.  If  the  black  morning  coat 
and  light  trousers  did  not  obtain  for  him  the  berth  on  the 
East  India  Railway  that  he  was  after  —  but  they  would. 

He  went  swiftly  along  the  quiet  roads.  A  sleepy  old 
place  —  the  very  air  was  stagnant !  He  must  get  out  of 
it. 

He  would  not  come  back  until  his  name  was  on  every- 
body's lips,  until  he  was  rich  and  famous,  until  a  grateful 
country  had  recognized  how  much  it  owed  to  him.  What 
price  Richard  when  he  was  Sir  Henry?  His  father,  too. 
They  would  all  be  proud  of  him.  He  had  not  been  able 
to  take  scholarships,  he  had  not  gone  into  the  Civil  Serv- 
ice, but  when  England  had  been  in  need  of  help  he  had  been 
ready.  "  Everything  I  have  and  am." 

He  had  saved  his  country. 

His  name  would  be  written  on  the  rolls  of  fame;  it 
would  be  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation. 


216 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Born  in  this  town  but  his  greatest  work  was  done  in 
India  and  the  colonies." 

To  his  surprise,  he  was  already  at  the  tailor's  shop. 
He  walked  in,  and  dreams  of  greatness  hung  about  the 
trying  on  of  the  new  clothes.  He  had  no  fault  to  find  with 
cut  or  fit  —  indeed  they  were  almost  worthy.  He  stood 
a  moment  looking  at  himself  in  the  tailor's  long  glass. 
Those  who  had  the  making  of  desirable  appointments 
would  never  be  able  to  harden  their  hearts  against  such 
admirable  clothes. 

"  You  will  let  me  send  these  for  you  ?  "  The  cutter,  the 
fitter,  Mr.  Sykes  himself,  had  gathered  to  view  this  tri- 
umph of  their  art. 

"  Thanks,  I'll  wear  them." 

He  would  saunter  through  the  streets  wearing  them; 
he  would  gather,  as  the  Children  of  Israel  gathered  manna, 
the  comments  of  his  acquaintances,  their  surprise,  their 
curiosity.  "  What's  King  up  to  now?  "  But  they  should 
not  know,  not  until  after  he  had  pulled  it  off. 

He  carried  an  impassive  face.  He  hardly  noticed  his 
acquaintances;  he  was  preoccupied,  absorbed.  He,  as  it 
were,  kept  the  blinds  down  so  that  no  man  or  woman  of 
them  should  see  the  grinning  elf,  who,  inside,  was  turning 
somersaults  and  standing  on  his  head  and  sticking  his 
tongue  into  his  cheek. 

"  Ain't  'ee  a  bloomin'  torf !  " 

"  Not  much  «  Rough  'Un  '  about  them  togs !  " 

"  That's  the  chap  who  put  the  kibosh  on  Sam  Prickett. 
I  lay  he's  up  to  something." 

"  Clothes  do  a  lot  for  a  man.  Would  you  believe  it, 
that's  Harry  King !  " 

"  Wonder  where  he's  off  to  —  garden-party  at  Bucking- 
ham Palace?  I  don't  think." 

Harry  had  been  eighteen  when  he  left  home,  he  was  now 


The  Rolling  Stone  217 

twenty-four.  At  first  Mr.  King  had  been  unwilling  that 
he  should  live  with  the  Tremaines  —  live  anywhere  except 
under  the  paternal  roof.  It  did  not  look  well;  people 
might  think  — 

For  once,  however,  Mrs.  King  was  on  Harry's  side. 
Eighteen  years  of  him  had  not  inured  her  to  the  surprises 
that  his  restless  mind  was  for  ever  springing  on  those 
unfortunate  enough  to  be  in  his  neighbourhood,  and  she 
would  be  glad  of  a  little  peace. 

"  You  don't  mind  my  leaving  home  ?  "  He  expected 
her  to  raise  an  objection.  She  ought  to  mind. 

But  she  was  no  more  sentimental  than  he.  "  I  don't 
think  boys  and  girls  should  stop  in  the  nest  after  they 
are  grown  up.  Pretty  business  if  they  did.  The  old 
birds  would  never  get  any  rest." 

"  You  ought  to  miss  me."     He  would  give  her  another 
chance.     After  all  —  one's  mother! 
"  Ay,  and  'twill  be  a  good  miss." 

She  consented,  however,  to  continue  making  and  mend- 
ing for  him  —  "  'till  you  get  a  woman  of  your  own." 

Harry  had  not  been  the  first  to  leave  home,  for  Richard, 
having  entered  the  Civil  Service,  was  already  in  Egypt. 
His  had  been  the  usual  fate  of  the  scholarship  boy.  Clever 
and  charming,  he  would  do  well  in  a  mediocre  way  —  do 
well  in  his  rabbit-run,  be  a  useful  servant.  His  mind  had 
leaped  along  the  beaten  tracks ;  he  would  never  force  a 
way  for  himself,  it  had  not  even  occurred  to  him  that  he 
should.  Mr.  King  was  developing,  about  the  boy  of  whom 
he  had  been  so  proud,  a  sense  of  disappointment.  Rich- 
ard seemed  to  have  come  to  an  end ;  the  Service  had  swal- 
lowed him,  there  was  nothing  more  to  happen.  About 
James  too  —  for  the  Codger  was  still  the  Codger :  the  com- 
pany had  ear-marked  him  as  a  useful  servant  and  he 
would  rise,  he  might  even  become  the  head  of  a  depart- 


218  The  Rolling  Stone 

ment.  But  if  the  one  son  had  ceased  to  do  sensational 
things,  Mr.  King  knew  the  other  would  never  attempt  them. 

"  And  in  Egypt,  Richard,  how  do  you  occupy  your 
time?" 

"  We  play  a  good  deal  of  tennis." 

"Yes?" 

"  And  we  dine  out  a  goodish  bit.  It's  the  usual  round. 
And  then,  of  course,  there's  the  office." 

Tennis  and  dinners  and  the  office  —  but  the  office  last ! 
And  that  was  the  boy  of  whom  he  had  expected  so  much. 

Richard  had  risen  in  the  world,  his  career  at  school  and 
college  had  been  distinguished.  What  was  lacking? 

Mr.  King  was  a  servant  and  Richard  too.  The  father 
had  hoped  for  something  more,  had  hoped  his  boy  would 
prove  a  master  of  men.  Why  was  he,  too,  only  a  servant? 
Had  it  anything  to  do  with  his  training?  Did  the  public 
schools  and  universities  only  trim  you  and  shape  you  to 
this  end?  He  turned  from  the  thought.  If  his  god  had 
feet  of  clay  he  would  avert  his  eyes,  he  would  not  look. 

But  the  feeling  of  dissatisfaction,  though  he  denied  it, 
was  growing,  and  there  remained  only  Harry :  Harry, 
who  had  wasted  the  years  that  should  have  been  devoted 
to  study  in  idle  amusement  —  football,  boxing,  and  the 
like ;  Harry  who  his  brothers  said  was  a  dark  horse.  Was 
it  possible  that  Harry  .  .  .  ? 

From  his  daughters  Mr.  King  had  not  expected  much. 
He  had  sent  them  to  an  expensive  finishing  school,  that 
to  which  the  Misses  Margerison  had  gone.  He  had  hoped 
much  from  that  conjunction.  The  girls'  manners  would 
be  softened,  they  would  make  useful  friends,  their  school- 
fellows would  have  brothers. 

All  that  had  come  of  it  was  that  Richard  had  married 
Ethel  Margerison. 


The  Rolling  Stone  219 

A  good  thing  in  its  way,  a  better  if  Ethel's  tone  could 
have  affected  Mab  and  Nancy. 

Unfortunately,  they  voted  her  namby-pamby,  a  ninny! 
He  did  what  he  could.  He  brought  home  fellows  from 
the  office,  the  sort  he  hoped  his  daughters  would  marry; 
and  the  young  men  came  once  but  not  again.  Bet  had 
made  her  choice,  she  was  engaged  to  Jack  Tremaine ;  yes, 
Bet  had  sense.  But  Mab  and  Nancy  said  they  could  wait, 
they  were  not  going  to  throw  themselves  away. 

With  his  boys  out  in  the  world  and  his  girls  home  from 
school,  Mr.  King's  burthen  had  been  lightened.  He  no 
longer  worked  all  day  and  every  evening.  He  had  given 
up  some  of  his  secretarial  appointments  and  was  begin- 
ning, vaguely,  to  think  of  retiring. 

Harry  came  upon  him  in  the  study.  "  Bought  these 
at  a  sale  today,"  said  Mr.  King,  indicating  the  books  he 
was  arranging.  "  As  I've  given  up  the  technical  schools 
I  shall  want  something  to  do  in  the  evenings." 

The  books  were  bound  in  bright  blue  and  had  red  edges. 
Harry  saw  with  interest  that  they  were  an  edition  of 
Chambers's  "  Encyclopaedia."  He  also  would  read  them. 
James  and  Richard  talked  of  matters  of  which  he  was 
ignorant  —  of  a  person  called  Socrates,  whose  works 
Harry  had  not  been  able  to  borrow  from  the  town  library, 
and  he  had  decided  that  when  opportunity  arose  he  would 
dig  in  and  learn. 

"  Good  biz,"  he  said,  and  placed  his  silk  hat  on  a  chair. 
"  I'll  take  a  volume  back  with  me." 

"  Why,  Henry ! "  Mr.  King,  straightening  himself 
from  the  finished  task,  caught  sight  of  the  hat.  "  What's 
this?" 

"This?"  In  the  fresh  interest  Harry  had  forgotten 
his  clothes.  "  Eh  —  oh,  yes ;  as  I'm  going  to  apply  for 


220  The  Rolling  Stone 

a  berth  in  the  East  India  Railway  I  thought  I'd  better 
get  some  decent  togs." 

"  In  the  East  India  Railway  ?  This  is  the  first  I've 
heard  of  it." 

"  You  didn't  suppose,  father,  that  I  was  going  to  stop 
on  here?  " 

"  Humph !  Well,  I  hope  if  you  get  this  job  you'll  stick 
to  it.  You've  shifted  about  a  bit  since  you  were  out  of 
your  articles." 

"  A  man  shouldn't  stop  too  long  in  any  one  place ;  he 
is  apt  to  get  stale." 

Mr.  King  had  stayed  a  working  lifetime  with  one  firm 
and  in  one  place.  James  would  follow  his  example. 
James,  ay,  and  Richard !  Whence  came  the  drop  in 
Harry's  blood  that  made  him  a  wanderer?  His  mother's 
people  had  been  farmers ;  they  had  lived  for  generations  in 
the  same  parish,  dust  of  it  were  they  and  unto  its  dust 
they  had  returned.  Remained  his  own  side  of  the  family 
—  his  father.  He  had  never  been  able  to  persuade  the 
old  man  to  talk  of  the  past ;  it  was  too  painful,  he  said. 
Mr.  King  did  not  even  know  for  certain  whence  his  father 
had  come.  Marcus  King  —  a  strange  name  Marcus,  un- 
English.  Was  the  grandfather  with  the  un-English  name 
and  terrible  memories  responsible  for  Harry's  queerness, 
for  what  made  him  different  from  the  rest  of  the  family? 

For  once  the  surprise  Harry  had  sprung  on  him  was 
not  disagreeable.  The  girls  had  been  "  finished,"  so  ap- 
parently had  Richard,  but  not  Harry.  He  was  going 
abroad,  going  in  search  of  —  the  one  man  called  it  suc- 
cess, the  other  adventure ! 

"  I  wonder  what  your  mother  will  say  ?  " 

Mrs.  King,  her  sewing  on  a  small  table  at  her  side,  was 
threading  a  needle.  She  looked  up  as  the  men  came  in 


The  Rolling  Stone  221 

from  the  study.     "  I  thought  for  the  moment  you  were 
Richard,"  she  said. 

Harry  explained,  and,  getting  up,  she  smoothed,  with 
work-worn  fingers,  the  collar  of  the  new  coat. 

"Ah,  Sykes  made  it?  Yes,  he  made  for  Richard,  but 
you  haven't  the  figure." 

Harry    looked    at    her    reproachfully.     "It's    always 
.Richard  with  you." 

She  defended  herself.  "  He'd  less  original  sin  than 
the  rest  of  you."  She  meant  that  to  her  he  had  been  more 
affectionate. 

"  If  you  wear  those  clothes,"  said  Nancy,  "  I  don't  mind 
going  for  a  walk  with  you  on  Sunday.  You  look  quite 
decent." 

"  For  once  in  your  life,"  said  Mab  pertly. 

"  Thanks,"  Harry  tossed  back  the  ball,  "  but  I  don't 
take  my  sisters  for  walks.  Get  a  man  of  your  own." 

"  No  difficulty  about  that,"  said  Nancy,  her  colour  a 
little  heightened. 

Remembering  Socrates,  he  carried  off  the  S  volume  of 
the  encyclopaedia,  and  that  evening  after  supper  applied 
himself  to  study.  But  Socrates  was  a  puzzling  disappoint- 
ment :  an  old  chap  who  made  a  nuisance  of  himself  by 
asking  questions,  a  man  who  never  did  anything  but  talk. 
He  had  got  on  the  nerves  of  those  appointed  to  govern, 
and  they  had  accused  him  of  a  beastly  sort  of  corruption, 
the  corruption  of  youth.  Harry  supposed  that  the  au- 
thorities had  known  what  they  were  about ;  yet  Richard  and 
James  discussed  this  mouldy  old  chatter-box  as  if,  in  spite 
of  time  and  death,  he  mattered.  It  was  mystifying.  He 
did  not  understand.  Well,  at  any  rate,  he  knew  now  who 
Socrates  was.  He  turned  the  pages,  and  under  "  Steel  " 
found  matter  more  congenial. 


222 The  Rolling  Stone 

On  the  following  day  he  called  at  the  head  office  of  the 
company,  and  without  much  difficulty  passed  the  outer 
defences  and  reached  the  sanctum.  "  It's  the  clothes,"  he 
told  himself  as  he  was  ushered  in. 

The  Presence  was  a  white-haired  man  wearing  horn- 
rimmed spectacles.  When  he  took  them  off  his  eyes  were 
a  mild  blue,  but  seen  behind  the  glass  they  had  a  keener 
glint. 

"  Your  business,  Mr.  King?  "  and  Harry  explained  it. 

"  Your  qualifications?  " 

Harry  had  done  good  work  for  the  firm.  "  I  have  just 
finished  putting  in  the  lighting  plant  for  Grove  Station." 

The  Presence  turned  up  an  entry.  "  Yes,"  he  said, 
"and  .  .  .?» 

Harry  went  into  further  details.  He  had  worked  at 
Ipswich,  at  Doncaster.  He  produced  his  papers  and  the 
old  man  examined  them. 

"  It  is  not  usual  for  people  to  apply  for  a  post  abroad. 
We  prefer  to  choose  for  ourselves  among  the  young  men 
in  our  employ.  We  watch  their  work  and  select  those 
we  think  suitable." 

"  I  thought  if  I  applied  it  might  hasten  matters." 

"  We  like  to  send  out  men  who  are  keen."  But  he  dis- 
trusted overkeenness ;  it  did  not  seem  to  him  English. 
And  he  hesitated,  ruffling  the  papers  before  him  with 
long,  thin  fingers  and  considering,  considering.  "  You 
know,  of  course,  that  it  means  making  your  home  in  In- 
dia? " 

"  I  am  prepared  for  that  ?  " 

"  If  we  appointed  you,  when  should  you  be  ready  to 
start?" 

Harry  had  often  started  at  a  moment's  notice  on  some 
vessel  bound  on  a  short  voyage.  He  had  taken  his  holi- 


The  Rolling  Stone 223 

days,  learnt  his  geography,  that  way.     "  I  am  ready  now." 

"  Now?  " 

He  stood  up,  balancing  lightly,  looking,  as  the  Presence 
felt,  ready  to  start  at  that  instant  for  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  "  If  you  wanted  me  to,  I  could  go  from  here  to 
the  docks  and  sleep  on  board  tonight." 

He  was  irresistible  and  the  old  man  smiled.  "  We 
should  hardly  be  so  inconsiderate  as  that.  Let  me  see: 
this  is  June.  A  boat  will  be  sailing  on  July  21.  We  shall 
send  you  out  on  her  as  —  "  he  paused  to  correct  his  mem- 
ory from  a  paper,  "  as  assistant  locomotive  superintend- 
ent of  the  line.  It  rests  —  "  he  smiled  again,  "  it  quite 
evidently  rests  with  you  how  quickly  you  rise ;  and  India, 
to  a  man  of  alert  mind  and  healthy  body,  affords  great 
opportunities."  His  manner  changed  from  the  paternal  to 
the  businesslike.  He  was  once  more  a  man  whose  physical 
life  was  nearly  at  an  end,  whose  personal  life  had  ended  long 
ago.  "  Anything  you  want  to  know  they  will  tell  you  in 
the  office.  Good  morning." 


Ill 

The  morning-rooom  at  Rosemeads  overlooked  the  gate 
and  a  space  of  tree-shadowed  road;  and  the  window,  a 
sunlit  window,  was  one  of  Susie's  favourite  haunts.  She 
was  sitting  there  the  evening  of  Harry's  successful  raid  on 
London;  but  she  was  not  expecting  him.  If  you  ex- 
pected people  they  did  not  come ;  the  best  way  was  to  tell 
yourself  they  were  busy,  had  not  got  back,  had  an  ap- 
pointment ;  then,  at  any  moment,  the  contrary  might  hap- 
pen. 

Harry,  walking  up  the  road  after  he  had  electrified  his 
family  with  the  news  — "  It  was  the  silk  hat  did  it ;  they 


224  The  Rolling  Stone 

realized  I  knew  what  was  what  "  —  saw  her  little  head 
through  the  clear  pane  of  glass  and,  though  he  was  very 
full  of  himself,  felt  suddenly  a  little  chilled,  a  little  doubt- 
ful. He  wanted  to  get  out  of  England,  to  see  new  coun- 
tries, try  his  luck;  but  he  didn't,  no,  he  didn't  want  to 
leave  Susie  behind. 

She  was  a  darling,  a  little  piece  of  perfection,  a  jewel. 
He  would  have  liked  to  pack  her  in  cotton-wool  and  put 
her  in  his  trunk  and  carry  her  off.  She  would  be  there 
for  when  he  wanted  to  look  at  her,  to  play  with  her.  He 
did  not  want  her  all  the  time,  only  when  he  was  in  the 
mood. 

He  couldn't  do  it,  of  course;  girls  were  not  bits  of 
jewellery  to  be  wrapped  in  cotton-wool  and  packed  in  a 
trinket-box  and  put  at  the  bottom  of  a  Saratoga  trunk. 
Yet,  if  he  did  not  take  her,  another  would. 

He  saw  her  —  surrounded !  Bobbie  Chapman  —  but, 
somehow,  Bobbie  didn't  count;  still,  there  were  others. 
Frank  Margerison  was  always  making  excuses  to  drop  in, 
and  there  was  Gage.  Harry's  thoughts  circled  about 
Gage.  He  was  doing  well;  Drummond  had  lately  made 
him  manager  of  Golden  Hill  Quarry.  He  was  in  a  posi- 
tion to  marry  and  was  the  sort  not  to  think  of  marriage 
until  he  had  the  brass.  It  was  quite  evident  that  he  had 
begun  to  think,  that  he  was  thinking  of  Susie. 

Harry's  impulse  was  to  swoop.  Susie  belonged  to  him. 
He  wanted  to  drive  off  the  others,  to  parade  her  as  his. 
At  the  same  time,  he  did  not  want  to  endanger  his  freedom. 
There  were  quite  a  number  of  things  he  meant  to  do  in 
which  Susie  could  have  no  part;  he  must  do  them,  too. 

"  I've  got  it !  "  he  cried  up  to  her.  He  was  in  too  great 
a  hurry  to  go  round  by  the  door. 

She  pushed  open  the  window.  "The  appointment? 
I'm  so  glad;  at  least,  what  —  what  does  it  mean?  " 


The  Rolling  Storie  225 

"  I'm  going  to  India !  " 

The  gladness  died  out  of  her  face.  "  Oh,  Harry  — 
soon?  " 

"  In  three  weeks'  time !  " 

The  tears  welled  into  her  eyes ;  she  did  her  best  not  to 
let  them  run  over  and  fall.  She  stood,  seeing  him  as  a 
dark  blurr,  and  struggling  with  herself.  She  must  not 
cry,  not  now  —  but  it  had  been  so  sudden ! 

Harry  gripped  the  sill  with  his  strong  hand  and  pulled 
himself  up.  He  had  the  feeling  that  he  was  repeating  a 
forgotten  experience.  Once,  long  ago,  he  had  grasped  a 
stone  roughness  and  climbed  into  a  room.  The  action 
was  familiar,  but  he  could  not  remember  what  had  gone 
before,  what  had  followed,  only  that  it  was  concerned 
with  tears.  He  could  not  bear  to  see  a  girl  cry.  .  .  . 

Susie  had  risen  and  was  facing  him.  She  was  a  little 
frightened,  and  on  her  soft  face  was  a  tell-tale  smear. 
He  put  his  arms  round  her  and  drew  her  close. 

"  Don't  you  want  me  to  go,  Susie?  " 

Hope  shot  into  her  heart.  After  all,  perhaps  he  needn't 
go.  "  I  don't.  I  don't." 

His  voice  had  sunk  to  a  tender  soundlessness.  "  Come 
with  me !  Darling  —  come  with  me." 

She  hadn't  thought  of  that  as  a  possibility.  The  face 
she  raised  to  his  was  troubled.  India  was  so  far  away. 

Her  unwillingness  acted  on  him  as  a  spur.  "  I  want 
you,  darling." 

"  Do  you,  Harry,  do  you  really  ?  " 

Protestations  that  she  heard  with  a  divided  mind.  Su- 
sie was  a  blossom,  not  a  butterfly.  She  was  rooted  in 
English  soil.  "Are  you  going  to  stay  in  India,  live 
there?  " 

He  drew  a  picture  of  railroad  life,  of  the  openings  for 


226  The  Rolling  Stone 

a  young  fellow  with  ideas,  of  giddy  heights  to  which  that 
young  fellow  might  rise.  "  Of  course  it  will  be  our  home." 

And  India  as  a  home  did  not  appeal  to  her  island  mind. 
"  Snakes,"  she  thought,  "  and  black  holes  and  natives !  " 
Still  there  would  be  Harry.  The  railway  town  without 
Harry  would  be  a  dreary  place.  It  was  a  choice  of  evils. 
In  the  end  she  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded,  and  the 
Susie  who  sought  her  mother  was  a  modestly  happy  little 
girl. 

"Well,  my  bud?"  said  Mrs.  Allen,  who  was  sorting 
towels  in  the  glorified  cupboard  she  called  a  linen-room. 
When  she  heard  what  had  happened  she  pushed  the  linen 
aside  and  sat  down  with  Susie  on  an  ottoman. 

"  You  want  to  go  out  to  India  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  go  with  Harry." 

The  mother  guessed  at  the  scene.  If  only  she  could 
have  spread  a  maternal  wing  over  her  chick,  a  wing  that 
would  have  beaten  off  the  swooping  marauder ! 

"  It  was  because  you  didn't  want  him  to  go  to  India." 

"  He  —  "  began  Susie  softly,  and  fell  silent.  She  could 
not  tell  any  one  what  Harry  had  said. 

"  Oh,  I  know.  ..."  Mrs.  Allen  had  listened  to  more 
than  one  tale  of  love. 

Susie  broke  from  her  shyness  to  paint  afresh  Harry's 
picture  of  the  Dependency,  and  while  she  talked  her  mother 
pondered  the  situation. 

She  must  not  be  made  unhappy,  neither  must  she  be  al- 
lowed to  turn  a  foolish  promise  into  performance. 

"  Did  you  say  he  was  sailing  on  the  21st,  dear?  Let 
me  see :  this  is  June  30.  Only  three  weeks  !  "  She  paused 
on  the  awkward  fact.  Susie  had  common  sense.  Let  the 
fact  sink  into  her  mind.  "  You  are  sure  he  could  not  go 
later,  say  in  a  month  or  two?  " 

"  He  wouldn't." 


The  Rolling  Stone  227 

"  All  your  things  to  get !  Your  underclothes,  of  course, 
must  be  hand-made.  What  a  rush!  Are  you  quite  cer- 
tain he  couldn't  wait?" 

"  How  could  he,  mother?  " 

"  If  only,"  murmured  Mrs.  Allen,  "  you  had  been  en- 
gaged to  him  for  a  little  while!  If  only  people  had  been 
told ! " 

"  But,  mother,  he  only  thought  of  getting  the  smart 
clothes  and  asking  those  people  in  London  for  the  berth 
last  —  last  —  the  end  of  last  month.  He  couldn't  speak 
to  me  till  he  knew,  and  he  only  knew  today !  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  see  how  it  was ;  but  it  leaves  so  little 
time." 

"  Surely,  though,"  she  was  growing  anxious,  "  surely 
we  can  manage?  "  « 

"  Well,  let  me  think.  We  shall  have  to  write  to  every- 
body and  tell  them ;  then  we  shall  have  to  get  your  things 
—  it's  India,  you  know,  and  you  can't  go  with  any  sort 
of  a  trousseau  —  and  then  there'll  be  the  wedding.  You'll 
want  a  proper  wedding.  ..." 

"  Ye-es."  She  must  have  the  sort  of  wedding  other 
girls  had ;  must  be  married  in  white  satin  and  a  veil,  must 
have  bridesmaids  and  orange-blossoms  and  a  cake.  Her 
brothers,  too  —  they  must  get  leave  of  absence  from  their 
ships.  She  supposed  that,  as  her  father  was  dead,  Ralph 
would  give  her  away ;  and,  of  course,  the  uncles  and  aunts 
would  come  and  there  would  be  wedding  presents  and  an 
"  At  home." 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  can  do  it  in  the  time." 

"  Oh,  mother  !  " 

"Well,  dear,  think  of  your  frocks."  She  spoke  at 
length  on  the  frocks  she  meant  Susie  to  have.  It  was 
soothing  talk,  it  was  like  a  hand  passing  again  and  again 
over  a  cat's  fur. 


228  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Don't  you  think,"  she  said,  when  she  judged  the  mo- 
ment was  come,  the  moment  of  acquiescence,  "  don't  you 
think,  Susie,  that  as  the  time  is  so  short  you  had  better 
let  him  go  out  and  get  some  sort  of  a  home  ready  for  you? 
You  could  follow  —  in  a  month  or  two.  ..." 

"  Oh  no,  oh  no !  " 

Mrs.  Allen  talked  on.  Susie  must  acquiesce.  Those 
who  loved  her  were  not  going  to  trust  her  to  an  unknown 
lover.  "  Time  tryeth  troth,"  and  Harry  must  prove  him- 
self, prove  that  he  was  reliable.  "  A  month  or  two  later, 
dear,  then  you  could  go  comfortably.  It  isn't  so  very 
long " 

"  I  should  hate  travelling  alone." 

"  We  could  easily  find  some  one  to  chaperone  you." 

"  If  I  didn't  go  with  him  —  oh,  mother,  I  do  want  to 
go." 

"  I  know,  dearest,  I  know,  and  I  wish  it  were  possible ; 
but  you  see  yourself  ..." 

She  did  see.     "  Then  —  when  ?  " 

"  I  believe  October  is  a  good  month  in  which  to  travel." 

"October?  And  this  is  June?  "  She  considered.  "I 
could  be  ready  by  then  ?  " 

"  If  we  work  hard,  dear." 

"I  shall  enjoy  making  my  things."  The  thought  of 
the  fine  stitches  she  would  set  in  fine  materials  was  help- 
ful. A  delay  of  three  months  and  she  could  go  to  Harry 
"  all  glorious  within." 

"  We  shan't  have  to  scamp  them." 

"  There  is  that."  She  got  up  from  the  ottoman. 
"  Well,"  she  said  sadly,  "  I'll  tell  Harry  what  you  say ; 
but  I'm  afraid  he'll  be  dreadfully  disappointed." 


The  Rolling  Stone  229 


IV 

Harry,  making  his  preparations  for  India,  knew  it  to 
be  of  the  first  importance  that  he  should  take  with  him 
fighting-gloves  and  a  set  of  boxing-gloves.  He  put  them 
into  the  Saratoga  trunk  and  stopped  to  think.  What 
else  would  he  require?  Tools?  Yes,  tools  would  come  in 
handy.  He  overhauled  his  possessions,  then,  unostenta- 
tiously, those  of  James.  The  desire-for  constituting  with 
Harry  the  right-to,  he  decided  that  several  of  James's 
tools  were  in  reality  his.  He  would  take  them,  how- 
ever, when  there  was  no  chance  of  their  being  reclaimed; 
the  last  evening  would  be  soon  enough. 

Harry's  "  hookey  "  thumb  was  also  in  evidence,  but 
more  openly,  when  it  came  to  a  question  of  clothes.  He 
hunted  garments  with  the  assiduity  a  dog  puts  into  digging 
out  a  rabbit.  He  laid  everybody  under  contribution,  and 
was  so  heartily  pleased  with  each  addition  to  his  belong- 
ings that  it  was  difficult  for  people  like  Susie  and  Mrs.  Al- 
len to  deny  themselves  the  pleasure  of  giving.  His  sis- 
ters were  less  inclined  to  be  generous. 

"  No,  Henry,  you  can't  have  father's  slippers,"  and 
"  Why  are  you  walking  off  with  that  photo?  It's  mine." 

Susie  gave  him  a  pair  of  plain  gold  sleeve-links,  and 
he  was  as  delighted  as  a  child  with  a  new  toy. 

"  I'll  send  you  things  from  India,"  he  promised.  How 
kind  the  Aliens  were !  He  wanted  to  make  them  some  re- 
turn, do  something  for  them.  If  only  an  opportunity 
would  arise  —  a  horse  run  away  with  them,  a  dog  attack 
them,  a  mad  dog!  He  was  at  his  best  in  an  emergency. 
If  only  he  could  have  saved  Susie  from  —  well,  from  any 
of  the  things  she  found  alarming!  At  intervals  during 
his  pursuit  of  clothes  he  saw  himself  rescuing  her  from 
drowning,  from  burglars,  from  an  angry  bull,  from  being 


230  The  Rolling  Stone 

run  over;  saw  himself  taking  her  back  to  Rosemeads  with 
"  You  trusted  me  to  look  after  her ! " 

Mrs.  Allen  would  be  grateful.  She  was  passionately 
fond  of  Susie.  She  was  —  he  felt  sure  of  it  —  rather 
fond  of  him.  A  good  sort,  Mrs.  Allen. 

It  was  true  she  had  objected  to  his  carrying  off  Susie 
to  India.  A  pity,  for  if  he  had  taken  her  with  him  after 
a  three  weeks'  engagement  what  a  sensation  it  would  have 
caused.  Nothing  he  had  hitherto  done,  not  even  his  fights 
or  his  playing  for  England  against  France,  would  have 
come  up  to  it. 

Susie  was  a  little  duck  ;  she  would  have  come.  Perhaps, 
however,  it  was  as  well  Mrs.  Allen  had  intervened.  He 
had  meant  what  he  had  said,  had  meant  it  at  the  moment. 
He  would  have  liked  to  have  had  Susie;  but  he  wanted 
still  more  to  sally  forth  on  this  adventure  without  anything 
hanging  to  his  arm.  To  have  her  bound  to  him,  yet 
leave  her  behind  for  the  present,  seemed  to  him  a  better 
arrangement.  She  would  be  there  when  he  wanted  her ; 
no  other  man,  neither  Margerison  nor  Gage,  would  have  a 
chance. 

She  was  not  to  accompany  him,  but  she  was  his  —  her 
time  was  at  his  disposal.  His  sisters  thought  him  a  nui- 
sance, but  Susie  found  a  pleasure  in  doing  things  for  him ; 
and  he  was  happy  bringing  handkerchiefs  for  her  to  mark, 
gloves  for  her  to  mend. 

Susie  herself,  though  she  had  little  time  to  think,  found 
herself  wondering  more  than  once  how  she  would  hnve 
managed  to  get  her  trousseau  together  in  the  bustle  and 
hustle  of  these  last  weeks.  With  a  touch  of  resignation 
she  told  herself  her  mother  had  been  right,  and  yet  —  oh, 
everything  was  so  unsatisfactory. 

Being  engaged  was  so  like  not  being  engaged.  True, 
she  might  go  about  with  Harry  and  do  things  for  him 


The  Rolling  Stone  231 

and  it  seemed  an  understood  thing  that  in  some  undefined 
way  she  belonged  to  him.  But  she  had  expected  something 
more. 

Harry  was  the  son  of  an  undemonstrative  mother  and 
knew  nothing  of  caresses.  The  girls  he  had  met  had 
wanted  to  kiss  him  and  he  had  taken  what  they  gave; 
they  might  do  the  kissing,  just  as  they  might  the  running. 
Susie  was  a  different  sort  of  being,  a  new  experience. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  her.  Love  he  could 
make,  but  her  ignorance,  the  bloom  on  the  grape,  kept 
him  from  showing  the  chief  emotion  that  he  felt. 

Susie  had  looked  shyly  at  other  engaged  couples.  They 
were  —  it  was  a  horrid  word  but  covered  thrilling  expe- 
riences —  they  were  spoony. 

Harry  wasn't. 

She  had  expected  he  would  want  to  sit  with  him  in  the 
dusk  and  say  silly  things  and  hold  her  hand  and  —  yes, 
kiss  her.  She  had  made  it  possible. 

After  shutting  up  the  bantams,  he  and  she  were  return- 
ing one  evening  to  the  house  when  she  suggested  they 
should  sit  for  a  little  on  the  bench  in  the  summer-house, 
and  Harry  had  agreed.  She  had  sat  close  to  him  —  not 
very,  only  enough  to  make  it  natural  that  his  arm  should 
go  around  her. 

Harry  was  talking,  he  was  discussing  Ralph.  I'm 
afraid  he  doesn't  understand  that  nothing  worth  having 
comes  without  serious  effort.  I've  always  thought  he 
wanted  stiffening.  The  world  makes  way  for  those  who 
have  the  will-power  to  conquer  and  forge  ahead." 

"  I'm  sure  it  does,"  said  Susie  and  wished  she  hadn't  a 
brother.  "  Harry,  I  put  this  frock  on  specially  for  you. 
It's  new.  How  do  you  like  it?  " 

"  Getting  too  dark  to  see  it.  Let's  go  indoors."  He 
got  up  and,  stijl  talking  platitudes,  led  the  way  out 


232  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Those  who  are  half-hearted  and  dubious  of  results  never 
get  anywhere." 

"  No,"  said  Susie.  It  was  tantalizing  to  sit  close  to 
Harry  and  have  him  talk  and  think  of  other  people.  Was 
it  her  fault?  Did  other  girls  know  better  how  to  man- 
age? Was  it  because  she  was  so  inexperienced  —  be- 
cause though  Bobbie  had  cared,  though  Ewen  had  cared, 
she  hadn't? 

She  couldn't  help  it  and  there  was  no  one  she  could  ask. 
You  did  not  ask  your  mother,  and  to  other  girls  you  pre- 
tended that  you  had  the  best  and  most  perfect  lover  in  the 
world. 

Before  they  were  engaged,  when  Harry  had  looked  at 
her,  when  on  rare  occasions  his  voice  had  lost  its  big  res- 
onance, had  sunk  into  that  queer  soundlessness,  she  had 
been  thrilled  and  expectant.  A  fire  was  burning  under 
that  impassive  surface  and  it  was  for  her ;  when  they  were 
engaged  it  would  break  through  the  crust,  it  would  flame. 
They  were  engaged  and  nothing  had  happened. 

The  fire  was  there  —  it  must  be  —  but  it  had  not  broken 
through.  When  with  his  long,  firm  lips  Harry  touched 
her  cheek  she  found  the  kiss  entirely  unsatisfactory ;  her 
prospective  stepfather  kissed  her  as  warmly. 

During  those  three  weeks  Drummond  more  than  once 
found  Susie's  glance  resting  on  him ;  she  seemed  puzzled 
about  something. 

"Well,  little  girl?" 

But  she  could  not  tell  him  she  was  wondering  whether 
the  older  couple  were  as  undemonstrative;  whether  love, 
after  all,  was  only  a  craving  and  a  craving  — 

Mrs.  Allen  went  with  Susie  to  the  docks ;  and  Harry  at 
first  was  wholly  occupied  with  his  berth,  the  bestowal  of 
his  luggage,  his  seat  in  the  dining-saloon.  He  had  sailed 
in  wind-jammers,  in  fishing-smacks,  in  grain  ships,  but 


The  Rolling  Stone  233 

never  before  in  a  liner.  He  would  enj  oy  the  experience,  he 
would  enjoy  the  fact  that  he  was  travelling  first  class. 

When  the  last  hour  came  the  young  couple  were  alone 
in  the  hotel  sitting-room. 

Susie  snatched  at  the  happiness  she  had  not  had.  "  Oh, 
kiss  me,  Harry,"  she  said,  half  crying,  "  you  never  kiss 
me." 

Harry,  surprised,  put  his  strong  arms  about  her  and 
gave  her  a  hug.  "  There !  "  he  said  consolingly. 

The  clasp  was  warm  and  thrillingly  strong;  it  showed 
Susie  what  she  might  have  had. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  she  said. 

"  What's  too  bad?  " 

"  I've  been  engaged  to  you  three  weeks,"  she  said,  and 
broke  at  last  from  her  reserve.  "  I've  wanted  to  kiss  you 
all  the  time." 

"Kiss  me,  then." 

She  took  his  face  between  her  little  hands  and  kissed  it 
hungrily  —  the  firm  cheeks,  the  short  straight  nose,  the 
brows  that  came  to  a  point  when  he  was  displeased  but 
at  the  moment  were  lying  level  over  the  bright  hazel  eyes ; 
and,  lastly,  because  she  was  beside  herself  with  grief  and 
longing,  she  kissed  him  full  and  fiercely  on  the  lips. 

And  Harry  pressed  her  to  him,  and  something  in  him 
melted  and  he  kissed  her  back.  Women,  though  with  the 
bloom  on  them,  were  still  women.  "  Stick  to  me  darling," 
he  said  soundlessly,  "  and  I  won't  fail  you.  Never.  I'll 
be  faithful  to  you  all  my  life." 

The  door  handle  rattled.  "It's  time  you  went  on 
board,  Harry,"  said  Mrs.  Allen. 

Susie,  very  happy,  very  miserable,  satisfied  yet  on  the 
eve  of  loss,  hung  on  his  arm. 

"  You  never  finished  my  bantam-coop,"  she  said  as  they 
went  down  to  the  wharf. 


234  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  I  will,"  Harry  promised  her,  "  I  will  when  I  come 
back." 

And  in  Mrs.  Allen's  heart  echo  gave  back  a  single  word, 
"  When  .  .  when  .  .  " 


Chapter  XIII 


THE  dining-room  at  Rosemeads  looked  through 
French  windows  on  to  a  gravel-path.  Susie 
had  given  up  sitting  by  the  morning-room  win- 
dow. Why  sit  there,  when  every  one  who  came  in  at  the 
gate  made  you  hope  for  the  impossible?  She  preferred  the 
dining-room  with  its  northern  aspect  and  lack  of  sun,  and 
to  it  she  had  moved  the  little  cane-chair.  She  sat  over  the 
fire  but  she  was  not  crocheting;  in  her  bottom  drawer  were 
as  many  rolls  of  trimming  as  she  would  use,  perhaps 
more.  Her  hands  were  idle,  but  on  her  knee  she  nursed 
a  book  —  "  Kim  " —  a  book  which  she  had  read  once  and 
was  reading  again. 

She  read  it  when  other  people  were  in  the  room.  When 
she  was  by  herself  she  looked  over  the  top  of  the  page 
and  followed,  among  the  red  embers,  the  dark  procession 
of  her  thoughts. 

It  was  so  long  since  Harry  had  written. 

His  last  letter  was  in  the  pocket  of  her  moireen  petti- 
coat. 

She  was  resting  one  hand  on  the  tiny  area  of  skirt  that 
concealed  it.  When  she  closed  her  eyes  she  could  see 
the  plain  strong  writing,  the  characters  dense  and  black 
on  the  cream-laid  note. 

In  every  letter  had  been  some  one  phrase  on  which  she 
could  feed  her  heart;  she  recalled  them,  dwelt  on  them. 
"  You  are  the  only  person  I  can  really  talk  to."  "  You 
are  sunshine  to  me."  "  Much  has  happened  and  I  want 

23i 


236 The  Rolling  Stone 

you.  No  one  else  is  any  good."  "  If  a  thousand  women 
were  to  line  up  before  me  and  I  was  told  to  choose  again, 
it  would  be  you  I  should  choose." 

He  had  chosen  her ;  that  was  everything.  She  must 
remember  that  —  keep  it  before  her  eyes,  in  front  of  her 
mind.  She  must  not  let  herself  get  depressed.  Once  and 
for  all  she  had  been  chosen. 

Yes,  chosen,  but  — 

"  Much  has  happened  and  I  want  you." 

If  he  wanted  her  why  did  he  not  ask  her  to  go  out  to 
him?  She  was  ready;  she  had  been  living  from  day  to 
day,  month  to  month,  in  hope  of  a  summons.  She 
counted  on  her  fingers  —  August,  September,  October ;  he 
had  been  gone  seventeen  months.  Seventeen  months ! 
She  wondered  how  she  had  managed  to  live  through  them. 
She  had  her  memories  and  Harry's  letters ;  not  much  in 
either  to  sustain  her. 

Harry,  poor  fellow,  could  not  help  himself;  he  was  like 
that.  He  could  not  put  down  what  he  felt.  He  was 
marvellous,  one  in  a  thousand,  and  he  was  hers,  but  he 
was  dumb.  He  could  not  express  the  love  he  felt,  he 
could  not  put  it  into  words.  In  his  breast  was  the  same 
craving  as  in  hers ;  but  she  could  say  tender  things,  while 
he  —  he  could  only  feel  them. 

Why  had  he  not  sent  for  her?  What  was  preventing 
him?  He  must  want  her  or  he  would  not  have  said  so. 
Well  then,  why? 

In  an  early  letter  he  had  said  there  were  no  English- 
women at  Mookta  and  that  the  place  seemed  to  him 
unhealthy.  He  had  not  alluded  to  it  again,  had  left  her 
to  infer  the  reason. 

How  seldom  he  spoke  of  the  thing  that  was  really 
interesting  —  their  life  together,  their  future.  She 
sighed.  But  that  was  Harry;  he  was  reserved,  he  took 


The  Rolling  Stone  237 

things  for  granted.  He  talked  of  politics,  of  ideas,  of 
view-points,  and  rarely,  very  rarely,  of  his  feelings;  you 
might  almost  have  thought  he  hadn't  any. 

You  might  —  if  you  hadn't  known  better. 

A  step  on  the  tiling  of  the  hall  made  Susie  open  her 
book.  She  held  it  with  her  left  hand,  and  while  she  bent 
her  eyes  upon  the  page,  they  rested  also  on  the  fingers 
steadying  it. 

Harry  had  promised  to  send  her  a  ring,  to  get  it  as 
soon  as  he  landed.  Her  mother  had  refused  to  let  her 
tell  her  aunts  and  uncles  about  Harry  until  she  had  it 
to  show  them.  It  had  not  come  and  he  had  not  explained 
why. 

It  was  to  have  been  a  turquoise  ring,  the  blue,  Harry 
had  said,  of  her  eyes. 

He  could  not  have  known  how  she  felt  about  it,  how 
much  it  would  have  comforted  her  to  see  it  on  her  finger, 
to  wear  it  and,  in  the  dark  of  night,  put  her  other  hand 
on  it  and  tell  herself  it  was  there. 

His  ring! 

After  all,  he  did  not  know  and  what  did  it  matter? 
Harry  loved  her  and  she  loved  him;  a  ring  was  only  the 
outward  and  visible  sign. 

One  lived  not  by  the  sight  of  a  ring,  not  even  on  the 
phrases  of  a  letter,  but  by  an  inward  conviction,  by  faith. 

And  faith  —  faith  - 

If  only  Harry  would  write  more  frequently! 

She  moved  restlessly.  Seventeen  months  and  nothing 
to  do  but  sew  and  think.  A  day  and  another  day  and  yet 
another,  and  each  day  saturated  with  a  queer  sort  of 
feeling,  a  feeling  that  was  all  mixed  up,  that  was  hope 
and  yet  was  pain. 

The  step  had  passed.  Susie  lifted  her  skirt  and  drew 
out  his  last  letter.  It  had  been  written  in  August,  and 


238  The  Rolling  Stone 

this  was  December.     A  fairly  long  letter,  two  sheets  of 
thin  paper. 

"  DEAR, —  A  few  lines  to  let  you  know  all's  well.  What 
a  drive  I  have  got  on !  But  all  are  keying  in  and  becom- 
ing imbued  with  the  spirit  of  leadership.  They  have  given 
me  charge  of  a  Maxim  gun  —  eh,  what?  Beginning  to 
recognize  my  quality.  Have  been  in  the  Himalayas  for 
a  spell  —  fever  —  but  am  back  invigorated,  ready  for 
anything. 

"  I  told  you  once  I  could  do  anything  I  chose.  Say  I 
choose  to  make  a  fortune  and  then  try  my  hand  at  using 
it  for  the  benefit  of  others?  Not  swimming-baths, 
libraries,  organs,  but  the  real  uplift  of  those  with  whom 
I  am  thrown. 

"  All  would  have  to  perish  who  antagonistically  flung 
themselves  on  the  rock  —  that's  me  —  of  an  inflexible 
will  and  determination. 

"  But  it  would  need  the  Day  of  Judgment  to  change 
the  outlook  of  people  in  England.  Take  the  ugly 
parts  —  beer,  vice,  neglect  of  child-life,  housing,  profiteer- 
ing, swindling,  hypocrisy,  cant,  humbug,  religion,  and  that 
rot ;  and  yet,  the  finished  product,  the  finest  thing  in 
the  shape  of  men  and  women  the  world  holds  or  ever  will ! 

"  If  I  had  my  way  no  Cabinet  should  hold  office  in 
Britain  unless  sound  on  the  following  points:  .  .  ." 

Susie,  hunting  among  the  hard,  aloof  incoherences  for 
crumbs  of  affection,  had  to  content  herself  with  the 
signature : 

"  Yours  ever, 

"  HARRY." 

Her  eyes,  softening  to  the  "  yours  "  and  "  ever,"  lost 


The  Rolling  Stone 239 

for  a  moment  their  unhappiness.  Under  the  vague 
theorizing  was  buried  the  kind  Harry  who  was  so  strong, 
who  loved  her  but  could  not  put  his  love  into  words. 
With  his  pen  he  had  shaped  the  "  ever,"  his  broad  hand 
had  pressed  the  paper.  And  "ever"  had  meant?  As 
long  as  they  two  should  live. 

"  Yours  ever."  It  was  comforting,  reassuring. 
Though  *she  had  had  no  letter  for  three  months,  she  need 
not  distress  herself.  Mails  were  lost  at  sea,  in  railway 
accidents,  in  the  pockets  of  dishonest  postmen.  In  time 
Harry  would  write  again.  Christmas  was  at  hand.  Per- 
haps he  had  remembered,  had  bought  the  turquoise  ring 
and  was  timing  it  to  reach  her  on  Christmas  Day. 

If  he  had  —  oh,  if  he  had ! 

Mrs.  Allen  —  or  rather,  Mrs.  Drummond,  for  she  had 
been  Tom  Drummond's  wife  for  over  a  year  —  coming 
into  the  dining-room  in  search  of  her  daughter,  saw  the 
transient  gleam. 

"  Are  you  ready,  my  bud?  " 

"Ready,  mother?" 

"  Ready  to  go  into  the  town  with  me?  " 

Susie  rose  with  some  of  the  old-time  willingness  to  fall 
in  with  the  wishes  of  others. 

"  I  won't  be  a  minute." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  has  heard  from  him,"  said  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond to  her  reflection  in  the  glass  over  the  mantelshelf. 


II 

"Mother,"  said  Susie  as  they  walked  briskly  towards 
the  High  Street,  "  I  can't  understand  why  you  go  to  the 
shops  yourself  for  what  we  want.  The  boys  call  for 
orders." 


240  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  If  I  didn't  choose  the  joint  I  should  get  just  anything 
the  butcher  liked  to  send,  and  the  same  with  the  fish." 
Under  the  words  lay  her  sense  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
select  the  food  her  Tom  was  to  eat,  one  pleasure  among 
many. 

"  What  are  you  smiling  at,  mother?  "  asked  Susie  wist- 
fully. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond,  "  how  pleasant 
it  is  to  lite  in  a  town  like  this,  where  you  know  everybody. 
I  hope,  Susie,  that  when  you  marry  you  will  settle  near, 
so  that  you  can  run  in  and  out." 

"  I  should  like  it,  too,"  said  Susie,  and  thought  to 
herself,  "Yes  —  but  if  I  marry  a  rolling  stone?" 

The  bright  December  day,  a  red  sun  overhead  and  rime 
on  the  grass,  had  brought  the  warmly  clad  people  out 
of  their  houses.  Christmas  was  near,  the  shop  windows 
flauntingly  gay,  and  they  had  money  to  burn. 

"  Look,  mother,  there's  Ethel  King." 

A  short,  fair  girl  in  a  fur  coat  and  cap  was  coming  out 
of  an  ironmonger's.  She  had  come  to  show  the  Arch- 
deacon and  Mrs.  Margerison  their  eldest  grandchild. 
Susie  looked  at  her  wistfully.  She  could  not  go  to  the 
Kings  for  news  of  Harry,  but  his  sister-in-law  might  be 
willing  to  talk. 

"How's  baby?" 

Mrs.  King  turned  with  a  sense  of  pleasure.  Her  Rich- 
ard was  a  dear,  but  she  did  not  get  on  very  well  with  his 
relatives.  Susie  as  a  connexion  —  and,  though  an  en- 
gagement had  not  been  announced,  she  suspected  an  un- 
derstanding —  was  a  relief.  Mrs.  King  hoped  that  Harry 
would  stick  to  her,  though  really,  as  things  were,  she  did 
not  see  ... 

Their  shopping  finished,  the  three  women  turned  out 
of  the  High  Street. 


The  Rolling  Stone  241 

"  Old  Mr.  King  has  gone  to  London,"  Ethel  King  said 
conversationally. 

"  Old?  "  thought  Mrs.  Drummond.  "  Oh,  these  young 
things ! " 

"  On  business  ?  "  asked  Susie.  Mr.  King's  comings  and 
goings  did  not  interest  her ;  but  any  news  was  better  than 
none. 

"Would  you  call  it  business?" 

Susie  looked  helpless.  "  I  don't  know.  Why  is  he 
gone?" 

Ethel  settled  her  little  pointed  chin  in  her  furs  with  a 
feeling  of  satisfaction.  It  did  not  do  to  discuss  one's 
in-laws'  affairs  with  other  people,  but  Mrs.  Drummond 
and  Susie  —  especially  Susie  —  were  different. 

"  To  meet  Harry." 

"  To  meet  —  Harry?  "  Susie  did  not  attempt  to  con- 
ceal the  immensity  of  her  surprise,  of  her  joy.  Harry 
coming  home,  Harry  in  England?  Impossible!  "I  — 
I  have  not  heard  for  a  mail  or  two.  I  had  no  idea.  What 
is  it?  What  has  happened?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  to  worry  about.  He  threw  up  his  job 
in  order  to  go  to  the  war." 

"  To  South  Africa?  "  How  like  Harry !  It  was  splen- 
did of  him  and  yet  —  war  was  a  thing  of  bullets,  of 
wounds.  Her  eyes  grew  dim,  the  light  died  off  her  face. 
South  Africa ! 

"  But  they  wouldn't  pass  him  on  account  of  his  health." 

Harry  was  ill.  She  tried  to  stem  the  rush  of  joy  with 
that  vague  terror  but  did  not  succeed.  He  was  coming 
home,  he  was  home;  his  ship  had  been  racing  towards 
her  across  the  blue  Mediterranean,  across  the  grey  waters 
of  the  Bay.  She  had  been  fretting  over  his  silence  when 
it  only  meant  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  her. 

"  His  letters   aren't  very  explicit,  but  it  sounds  like 


242 The  Rolling  Stone 

malaria.  Of  course,  Mookta  lies  low."  She  resented 
the  reserve  which  had  withheld  all  details,  hushed  all  sur- 
mise. "  Anyway,  they  had  to  send  another  man  to  the 
Transvaal  with  Harry's  gun  and  he  is  on  his  way  home. 
That  is  practically  all  we  know." 

"  Our  Bear  will  have  a  sore  head,"  Mrs.  Drummond 
said.  "  He  won't  like  another  man  going  in  charge  of 
his  gun." 

"  Oh,  but  he  is  coming  home,"  said  Susie,  and  her 
mother  was  conscious  of  a  semi-regret.  She  wished,  at 
long  last,  that  she  had  never  made  Mr.  King's  acquain- 
tance and,  through  him,  that  of  his  family.  He  had  been 
helpful  about  railway  passes  and  she  had  repaid  his 
kindness  with  a  little  —  she  smiled  over  her  recollec- 
tions —  with  a  little  hospitality,  a  little  friendliness. 

Of  it  had  come  this. 

"  Harry,"  said  Susie  dreamily,  "  will  be  here  to- 
night." 

"  If  the  boat  is  in.  My  word,  he'll  find  it  cold  here 
after  India ! "  And,  shuddering  prettily,  Ethel  King 
turned  in  at  her  father's  gate. 

And  that  day  Mrs.  Drummond  noticed  that  her  daugh- 
ter ate  with  appetite.  Harry  was  home !  At  that  mo- 
ment he  might  be  driving  from  the  station  to  No.  14;  he 
might  be  kissing  his  mother,  talking  of  the  voyage. 

But  he  was  ill.  She  must  not  forget  that  he  had  been 
invalided  home.  Poor  Harry,  who  was  so  impatient  of 
sickness  —  that  is  to  say,  impatient  of  it  in  others.  But 
he  had  had  a  month  on  board  ship,  a  month  of  sea-air 
and  rest  and  liner-feeding.  It  must  have  made  a  differ- 
ence. She  didn't  want  him  to  be  quite,  quite  well.  Re- 
stored health  would  mean  rushing  about  in  search  of 
work.  If  he  were  only  convalescent  he  would  have  time 
on  his  hands,  he  would  be  often  at  Rosemeads. 


The  Rolling  Stone  243 

She  moved  the  cane-chair  back  into  the  morning-room 
and  got  out  her  crochet.  Ethel  King  had  shown  her  a 
new  pattern,  a  heading  for  short  curtains ;  and  she  would 
sit  by  the  window,  telling  herself  that  a  watched  pot  never 
boils,  that  Harry's  boat  was  not  yet  in,  that  he  could  not 
possibly  have  arrived. 

She  sat  there  till  the  dusk  fell,  till  she  could  no  longer 
see  the  strip  of  white  work  about  which  her  fingers  were 
moving.  On  the  following  morning  she  went  back  to 
her  post,  and  Mrs.  Drummond,  returning  from  her  daily 
shopping,  brought  her  what  news  there  was. 

"  Mr.  King  is  not  yet  back  from  town,"  she  said,  and 
Susie  thanked  her  and  went  on  with  her  work.  She  had 
waited  seventeen  months,  what  was  another  day? 

December  days  can  be  the  longest  in  the  year  and  the 
coldest  and  the  blackest. 

A  week  of  waiting  and  yet  Harry  had  not  come.  Su- 
sie's crochet  lay  in  her  lap,  but  she  still  sat  at  the  window, 
at  the  wide  window  that  overlooked  the  path  to  the  front 
door. 

Ethel  King,  meeting  Mrs.  Drummond  by  chance,  told 
her  what  she  knew.  "  Yes,  the  boat  is  in,  but  Harry 
isn't  coming  home.  I  don't  understand  it." 

"Is  he  ill?" 

"I  —  I  don't  know.  I  think  he  is  better.  At  any  rate, 
he's  going  away  again." 

"Where  is  he  going?" 

"  I  think,  I'm  not  sure,  but  I  think  he  is  going  to  South 
Africa.  Queer,  isn't  it?  But  they  don't  tell  you  much." 

She  was  resentful.  The  wife  of  the  eldest  son  and  yet 
excluded  from  family  talks!  You  would  have  thought, 
taking  everything  into  consideration,  that  they  would  have 
been  glad  to  confide  in  her,  ask  her  advice.  But  no,  they 
kept,  their  own  counsel.  What  was  it  the  curate  had 


244 The  Rolling  Stone 

said  — "  a  stiff-necked  generation  "  ?  "  Stiff-necked  " — 
a  good  word,  just  right  for  them.  They  were  that,  all 
of  them,  all  but  Richard,  all  but  dear  old  Dick. 

Mrs.  Drummond  walked  on  home.  As  she  entered  the 
garden  she  glanced  at  the  morning-room  window.  Susie 
was  in  her  chair  but,  in  eloquent  testimony  to  wakeful 
nights,  her  head  was  laid  against  the  red  cushion  and 
she  no  longer  marked  who  came  and  went.  Her  mother, 
seeing  that  she  slept,  paused  for  a  moment.  Under  the 
closed  eyes  were  shadows,  deeper  shadows  than  had  been 
cast  by  her  lashes.  Even  in  her  sleep  she  looked  un- 
happy. 

A  pang  went  through  Ursula  Drummond's  heart  for 
Phineas,  dead  and  rotting  in  his  grave,  for  Phineas's  little 
girl,  his  favourite  child,  cherished  yet  so  unhappy. 

Ill 

Mr.  King  pulled  down  his  cuffs  and,  moving  slowly, 
pushed  the  brim-brush  around  his  hat.  His  work  was 
done.  Regretfully  he  prepared  to  leave.  During  the  day 
he  was  so  busy  that  he  had  moments  of  absorption,  mo- 
ments when  his  inner  life  seemed  hushed  and  dead.  He 
dreaded  the  return  of  night,  of  the  night  in  which  no  man 
may  work. 

On  the  edge  of  the  night,  too,  came  the  recurrent  pass- 
ing of  the  feet.  They  were  the  feet  of  workmen  re- 
leased from  work,  of  clerks  like  himself,  of  factory  op- 
eratives ;  and  their  trampling  broke  through  all  absorp- 
tion. At  the  end  of  a  business  day,  when  the  feet  were 
going  out  of  the  town,  when  none  were  coming  back, 
they  beat,  not  on  the  pavement,  but  on  his  tired  brain. 

When  he  returned  from  London  Mr.  King  had  told 
his  wife  and  children  that  Harry's  health  had  improved 


The  Rolling  Stone 245 

during  the  voyage ;  that  he  had  wished  to  volunteer  for 
service  in  South  Africa;  that,  in  fact,  he  had  done  so 
and  was  gone.  Between  himself  and  his  family  he  had 
set  up  a  screen  of  silence,  between  himself  and  the  world. 

But  behind  the  screen ! 

Though  he  did  his  best,  there  were  times.  He  would 
be  absorbed  in  calculation  and  a  shadow  would  fall,  blot- 
ting out  the  figures,  releasing  his  unruly  thoughts.  They 
would  rush,  flashing  him  pictures,  back  to  that  evening 
at  the  hotel. 

Among  so  much  else,  an  evening  of  aspects. 

He  could  not  understand  how  a  child  born  of  his  cool- 
ness, his  stern  restraint,  could  have  gone  so  terribly 
astray. 

He  had  put  it  to  Harry,  and  Harry  had  hesitated  for 
a  moment.  "  It  was  curiosity." 

"  But  she  —  the  woman  —  you  tell  me  she  was  black?  " 

"  She  was  a  native." 

"  I  should  have  thought  that  would  have  made  it  im- 
possible." 

Harry,  hanging  his  head  boyishly,  had  blundered  on. 
"  They  told  me  it  would  be  different." 

Different!     Then   Harry  .  .  . 

He  had  often  wondered  about  his  boys,  and,  wondering, 
had  hoped  for  the  best.  He  could  not  do  more  than  set 
them  an  example.  "  Different ! "  he  had  said,  with  un- 
happy acceptance  of  the  implication. 

In  the  whirl  of  uprooted  faiths  he  had  clung  to  one 
supporting  stay:  it  was  not  in  any  way  his  fault. 

Harry  had  said  long  ago  that  he  was  not  afraid,  that 
he  would  try  things  for  himself.  Mr.  King  had  not 
thought  it  possible  that  the  itch  to  experiment  could  carry 
him  over  the  gulf  fixed  between  good  and  evil.  The  boy 
had  been  brought  up  in  a  Christian  home,  had  not  lacked 


246 The  Rolling  Stone 

for  precept  any  more  than  example.     Yet  —  with  every- 
thing in  his  favour  he  could  coldly,  out  of  mere  curiosity 

A  rush  of  footsteps!  They  broke  in  on  Mr.  King's 
consideration  of  cause  and  effect,  on  his  bewilderment. 
They  carried  him  back  to  the  sound  of  other  steps  —  of 
Harry's  steps  on  the  oilcloth  of  the  passage,  of  Harry's 
steps  receding,  growing  fainter  —  those  steady  steps  which 
were  going  out. 

Something  tore  at  Mr.  King's  heart,  for  if  he  had  said 
a  word,  if  he  had  sprung  up  from  that  hard,  upright 
chair  and  called  to  the  lad  .  .  . 

Coming,  breathless,  to  the  surface,  Mr.  King  found  he 
was  still  pushing  the  brim-brush  around  his  hat. 

Under  a  full  moon  the  December  night  was  pale.  In 
the  street  the  flood  of  workmen  was  diminishing,  and  when 
Mr.  King  stepped  out  of  the  door  ne  looked  on  a  sweep  of 
grey  road  broken  only  by  an  occasional  figure,  a  me- 
chanic, a  belated  errand-boy,  a  woman  laden  with  parcels. 

The  velvet-clad  figure  of  the  woman  seemed  to  him 
familiar;  but,  preoccupied  as  he  was,  people  whom  he 
had  known  were  become  almost  strange. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  Mrs.  Drummond  said  as  he 
came  up  to  her. 

He  murmured  the  conventional  greeting.  What  did 
she  want?  She  belonged  to  the  immensity  surrounding 
his  lurid  inner  life.  Like  the  rest  of  the  world,  she  was 
a  figure  seen  through  mist. 

"  Before  Harry  went  to  India  he  asked  my  little  girl 
to  marry  him.  .  .  ." 

"  Poor  child,"  said  Mr.  King,  but  with  a  relapse  into 
vagueness  and  distance.  Susie's  sorrows  were  to  him  as 
the  crying  of  a  seagull  in  the  dark.  That  innocent  crying 


The  Rolling  Stone 247 

was  part  of  the  mist,  and  he  was  sorry,  mildly,  for  what 
it  expressed;  but  there  were  worse  things  than  loneliness 
and  cold  and  night,  worse  things  even  than  broken  troth. 

"  Ah !  "  cried  Mrs.  Drummond,  with  a  little  rush  of 
mother-heat.  "  I  was  afraid  of  this.  He  is  so  weak, 
so  changeable." 

The  accusation  echoed  through  Mr.  King's  mind.  Had 
Harry's  backsliding  been  due  to  weakness?  Was  he, 
whose  physique  was  so  splendid,  morally  weak?  A  poor 
creature,  weak? 

Not  at  long  last,  no.  Mr.  King  could  be  proud  of 
Harry,  of  Harry  who  had  accepted  his  fate,  who  had 
offered  no  plea,  no  excuse,  but  had  gone  —  willingly. 

But  changeable?  Perhaps.  Pugilist  and  engineer, 
England,  India,  and  South  Africa.  Lover  of  variety,  he 
had  been  for  ever  drifting  and  shifting.  Ay,  up  till  now ! 
But  what  he  had  to  do  now  would  be  carried  through. 
He  had  been  changeable  in  life,  but  it  was  no  longer  a 
question  of  life. 

With  an  effort  the  father  dragged  his  thoughts  back 
to  Mrs.  Drummond.  She  had  been  speaking  to  him  of 
her  daughter,  a  little  young  thing  whom  he  remembered 
vaguely,  a  hapless  thing. 

"  She  is  young,"  he  said  kindly. 

"  Seventeen  —  no,  eighteen." 

"  She  will  forget." 

How  blessed  to  be  young  and  within  reach  of  forget- 
fulness!  "Poor  child!"  he  said  again.  After  all,  the 
sorrows  of  a  child  .  .  . 

In  Mrs.  Drummond's  mind  was  the  merest  glimmer  of 
understanding,  but  she  felt  that  here  was  trouble,  a 
trouble  beyond  consolation.  She  walked  beside  Mr.  King 


248 The  Rolling  Stone 

in  silence,  and  he  was  dully  conscious  of  her  as  a  figure 
on  the  edge  of  his  inferno,  a  something  that  did  not  add 
to  his  pain. 

It  was  a  long  while  since  any  one  had  come  so  near. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  if  for  ages  he  had  been  alone  with 
his  thoughts,  with  that  one  disastrous  memory. 

Harry  had  said  "  I  can  go  out,"  and  he  had  answered, 
misapprehending  him,  "To  South  Africa?" 

Harry  had  said  almost  carelessly,  "  Oh,  in  the  other 
sense ! "  Then,  after  a  moment's  thought,  "  But  that 
will  do ;  South  Africa  will  be  the  way  of  it." 

There  had  been  the  faintest  pause.  He  felt  that  Harry 
must  have  hoped.  It  was,  after  all,  his  life.  All  the 
long  and  fruitful  years  .  .  . 

But  he,  Harry's  father,  had  not  spoken,  and  the  boy 
had  got  up  and  without  another  word  he  had  gone  out. 

"  The  lusts  of  the  flesh,"  said  Mr.  King  as  if  he  were 
thinking  aloud,  as  if  his  thoughts  were  an  indictment 
of  the  power  which  had  given  poor  humanity,  not  bread, 
but  tables  of  stone. 

To  Ursula  Drummond  the  words  were  illuminating. 
The  tale  of  some  illicit  love-affair  must  have  come  to 
Mr.  King's  ears  and  because  of  it  he  had  refused  to  let 
Harry  return  home.  She  was  familiar  with  the  workings 
of  the  older  man's  mind ;  knew  that  in  those  circumstances 
he  would  think  Harry  unfit  for  the  society  of  his  sisters, 
unfit  to  marry  a  girl  such  as  Susie. 

"  The  wages  of  sin,"  said  Mr.  King,  as  if  the  words 
were  wrung  from  him,  as  if  he  spoke  them  against  his 
will,  unable  any  longer  to  hold  them  back,  "  the  wages 
of  sin  is  death." 

The  woman  beside  him  smothered  an  exclamation.  She 
was  startled  out  of  her  easy  attitude  towards  events  and 


The  Rolling  Stone  249 

character.  What  did  he  mean?  What  had  happened? 
Sin?  His  interpretation  of  the  word  had  always  been 
narrowed  to  sexual  irregularity. 

He  was  intolerant  of  it  as  a  desecration  of  the  body, 
that  body  which  to  him  was  the  temple  of  Godhead.  But 
he  must  know  that  his  view  was  unusual  —  that  such  things 
happened,  were  lived  down  and,  for  all  practical  purposes, 
forgotten.  Why  talk  of  death  in  connexion  with  them? 
The  woman  taken  in  adultery  had  been  told  to  go  and  sin 
no  more,  and  why  not  Harry?  Was  there  more  in  the 
matter  than  she,  Ursula,  had  supposed?  It  looked  like  it. 
The  note  of  pain  in  Mr.  King's  voice  had  been  unmis- 
takable. 

She  abandoned  the  attempt  to  understand.  No  matter 
the  cause.  Here  was  a  soul  in  straits,  a  soul  that  was 
calling  to  her,  not  because  she  grasped  what  was  amiss, 
but  because  she  was  kind.  To  Mr.  King  she  was  not  a 
friend,  not  even  a  woman,  only  a  something  living,  a 
something  that  heard. 

"  Death  makes  clean,"  he  said  in  a  sort  of  quick  mutter, 
"  and  he  was  given  to  me  —  clean. 

"  God  is  hard.  I  have  served  Him  all  my  days  — 
'  uphill  all  the  way  ' —  and  after  a  lifetime  of  service 

"  That  I  should  have  to  say  it. 

"  If  I  had  to  do  it  again  —  oh  yes,  I  should,  I  should. 

"  I  was  so  proud  of  him. 

"  With  my  own  lips,  I,  who  begot  him  .  .  . 

"  I  try  to  do  my  work.  Thinking  does  no  good.  It's 
done,  it's  done. 

"  I  can't  stop  thinking.  I'm  back  at  the  hotel  and 
I  see  his  face.  He  was  willing;  so  young,  yet  —  yet  he 
was  willing. 


250  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  I  follow  him  across  the  map,  down  the  grey-green  of 
the  sea  to  the  red  patch  at  the  South,  a  little  black  ship 

"  If  only  something  would  break,  here,  inside,  so  that 
I  need  not  think. 

"  So  that  I  could  forget  I  sent  him  .  .  . 

"  So  that  I  didn't  hear  his  footsteps  .  .  . 

"  I  cannot  bear  it  and  I've  got  to ;  but  I  cannot,  no, 
no,  I  cannot." 

His  steps  had  quickened  until  Mrs.  Drummond  had 
found  it  difficult,  then  impossible,  to  keep  up  with  him. 
She  fell  behind  but  he  did  not  notice.  Still  muttering 
to  himself,  he  walked  rapidly  along  the  moonlit  road. 

IV 

"  Ursula,"  said  Mr.  Drummond,  "  I  can't  bear  to  see 
that  kid  of  yours  so  down  in  the  mouth." 

Mrs.  Drummond  sighed,  yet  looked  expectant.  She 
had  done  her  best  and  it  had  been  of  no  avail.  Was  it 
possible  Tom  had  something  to  suggest? 

"  As  I  came  through  the  garden  just  now  I  saw  her 
speaking  to  Mrs.  Clegg." 

"  The  woman  to  whom  she  has  given  the  bantams  ?  " 

He  nodded.  "  It  was  evident  Mrs.  Clegg  wanted  the 
coop  as  well  as  the  birds." 

"  Oh,  poor  Susie !  "  She  recalled  Harry's  last  words  ; 
"  I'll  finish  it  when  I  come  back.  .  .  ." 

"  She  seemed  willing  to  give  it,  yet  she  held  back  as 
if  the  woman  were  asking  for  something  out  of  reason." 

A  listless,  dragging  step  came  through  the  hall,  and 
presently  Susie  entered  the  room.  She  was  looking  for 
something. 

"  What  is  it,  my  bud?  " 


The  Rolling  Stone  251 

"  A  book  I  was  reading,  but  it  doesn't  matter." 

"  What  was  the  name?  " 

"  *  Story  of  an  African  Farm.'  " 

Mrs.  Drummond  did  not  glance  at  her  Tom.  "  I  think 
it  is  in  the  drawing-room,  dear;  on  one  of  the  shelves 
by  the  fireplace." 

Harry,  in  Africa,  was  learning  at  first  hand  about 
kopjes  and  Kafirs  and  the  veldt,  and  Susie  must  be  read- 
ing of  these  matters.  The  pity  of  it  —  that  all  eyes 
should  be  turned  upon  the  Transvaal ! 

"  Oh,  thank  you !  "  Susie,  a  pale  listless  Susie,  drifted 
away.  She  did  not  care  whether  or  no  she  found  the 
book,  but  she  would  look  on  the  drawing-room  shelves 
because  it  was  the  next  thing  to  be  done  and  life  was  a 
procession  of  dull  hours  to  be  padded  out  with  events, 
with  events  that  were  like  sawdust. 

The  clear  brightness  of  the  drawing-room  —  green  felt 
over  black  boards,  black  curtains  and  dado  threaded  with 
lines  of  vivid  Eastern  colour,  sunlight  on  cushions  of  gold 
tissue,  of  dragons,  the  hairy  prickly  dragons  of  Chinese 
imagination  —  affected  her  pleasantly  for  a  moment. 
She  entered  with  a  little  blink  of  the  long  eyelashes.  Not 
very  long  ago  the  days  had  been  like  that  kind,  warm 
room. 

"  Now,"  she  thought,  "  it's  as  if  the  scrogglywogs  on 
the  cushions  had  been  changed  from  that  nice  thick  gold 
to  stuffy  material.  I  wonder  why?  Oh,  but  it  doesn't 
matter." 

The  shelves  by  the  fireplace  held  the  flotsam  of  the 
house.  Susie  ran  her  eyes  along  the  uneven  lines.  No, 
her  mother  had  been  mistaken :  but  she  didn't  particu- 
larly want  the  "  African  Farm,"  any  book  would  serve. 
"  A  Self-denying  Ordinance "  in  royal  blue  challenged 
her  attention,  and  she  pulled  it  out.  Drawing  a  rush- 


252 The  Rolling  Stone 

stool  towards  the  fire  —  for  Susie  was  a  chilly  mortal 
and  of  late  chillier  than  ever  —  she  turned  the  pages.  It 
seemed  a  melancholy  book,  the  sort  of  book  to  read  by 
a  warming  fire,  when  the  wind  was  talking  to  itself  in  the 
chimney  and  out  of  doors  the  grey  rain  swept  like  a  mov- 
ing curtain  over  the  land. 

Susie  turned  the  pages  but  she  did  not  read.  She  was 
listening  to  the  wind,  endowing  it  with  consciousness, 
giving  it  a  story. 

"  Even  if  he  has  left  you,  Wind,  you  should  not  whim- 
per. That  is  not  the  way  to  do.  You  should  behave  as 
usual ;  go  about  your  little  household  duties,  the  flowers 
and  that.  It  bothers  other  people  if  you  don't. 

"  I  expect  he  got  tired  of  you,  Wind.  I  dare  say  the 
only  prizes  you  got  at  school  were  for  good  conduct  —  oh 
yes,  and  punctuality.  Perhaps  when  he  talked  of  mag- 
netos and  crank-shafts  and  things  like  that,  you  did  not 
understand.  A  man  gets  tired  of  explaining  and  explain- 
ing —  oh  yes,  Wind,  he  does. 

"  And  you  can't  blame  him. 

"  If  you  are  a  stupid  little  creature,  Wind  .  .  ." 

But  Wind  continued  to  bemoan  itself,  and  presently 
Susie  turned  to  the  "  Self-denying  Ordinance."  It  was 
fat;  it  would  take  a  long  time  to  read.  She  glanced  at 
the  chapter-headings;  some  were  in  verse.  She  did  not 
care  very  greatly  for  poetry,  but  little  snacks,  little  se- 
lected bits,  were  sometimes  interesting.  All  unsuspect- 
ingly she  began  a  verse : 

Never  any  more 

While  I  live 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 

When  her  mother  had  said  "  Harry  has  not  been  faith- 


The  Rolling  Stone  253 

ful  to  you,"  the  blow,  falling  on  the  source  of  sensation, 
had  left  Susie  stunned,  and  this  condition  had  persisted, 
but  behind  it  a  change  had  been  gradually  taking  place. 
She  read,  and  the  barrier  fell  before  a  tide  that  had  long 
been  rising.  She  saw  Harry's  face,  dear,  oh,  inexpres- 
sibly dear  —  saw  it  as  a  whiteness  against  a  dark  back- 
ground, the  face  that  she  so  loved. 

Never  any  more  while  she  lived  might  she  hope  to  see 
it. 

Susie  bent  her  head  over  the  book,  rocking  to  and  fro 
in  an  agony  of  grief. 

Never  any  more  —  oh,  never,  never.  .  .  . 

In  the  other  room  her  elders  were  seeking  a  way  out. 
"  The  child  wants  a  change  of  scene,"  said  Tom  Drum- 
mond  kindly. 

"  But  if  we  took  her  to  Brighton  or  Worthing  .  .  ." 

"  I've  a  better  idea.  I've  always  wanted  to  know  how 
foreign  owners  ran  their  quarries.  For  a  month  or  more 
work  will  be  slack  here  .  .  .  and  there  are  quarries  in  the 
South  of  France,  in  Spain,  in  Italy.  I  could  get  intro- 
ductions to  the  owners  and  managers  .  .  ." 

"  You'd  take  Susie  and  me?  " 

Tom  Drummond  lifted  his  pipe  from  the  mantelshelf 
and  began  to  fill  it.  "  Should  you  mind  if  Gage  went 
along?  I'm  going  to  take  him  into  partnership,  and 
it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  him  to  see  how  these  foreign 
jossers  manage." 

"  Tom ! "  said  Mrs.  Drummond,  and  went  over  to  him 
and  put  a  finger  under  his  square  chin. 

"Well,  my  dear?" 

"  Do  you  know,  I've  wondered  sometimes  .  .  ."  She 
swung  abruptly  into  a  fresh  sentence.  "  It's  been  a  grief 
to  me  that  I  couldn't  give  you  children." 

"  It's  all  right,  old  lady,  quite  all  right." 


254 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  I  didn't  like  to  think  that  a  man  like  you  ...  I 
wanted  you  to  have  sons  and  grandsons  and  things." 

«  Well?  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is  all  right  —  eh,  Tom?  " 

Tom,  puffing,  was  heard  to  murmur,  "  I  should  say  so." 

"  Oh,  Tom,  how  wrong  of  you,  how  very,  very  wrong !  " 
She  meditated.  "  And  Gage  is  like  you  —  your  shoulders, 
your  walk.  .  .  ." 

"  He's  doing  well,"  said  the  impenitent  Tom,  "  and  he's 
a  good  chap.  Can't  help  hoping  that  in  the  end  he'll 
pull  it  off  with  Susie." 

"  And  if  they  did  .  .  ."  said  Mrs.  Drummond,  brighten- 
ing. "  Why,  Tom,  if  they  did,  their  children  would  be 
our  —  yes,  our  grandchildren  !  " 

"  Nothing  like  a  woman  for  looking  ahead,"  said  Tom, 
but  he  smiled.  "Then  that's  settled,  old  lady  —  off  to 
the  Continong  this  day  week." 


Chapter  XIV 


TTE  iron  roofing  of  the  dock-sheds  was  a  daz- 
zling white  under  the  rays  of  the  sun.  In  the 
background  rose  the  strange  bulk  of  Table 
Mountain  and  the  front  was  a  dapple  of  bright  water. 
Big  liners,  ugly  as  warehouses,  lay  like  so  much  dead 
material  on  the  lapping  tide;  innumerable  sailing  vessels 
swayed  and  swung;  dirty  tramps  stacked  with  compressed 
hay  were  being  unloaded  by  brown  Malays,  light-coloured 
Cape  boys,  jet-black,  red-brown  Kafirs;  and  through  the 
movement  and  bustle  ran  the  creak  of  lifting  derricks  and 
the  deep  note  of  the  African  voice. 

A  company  of  men  in  khaki,  men  with  sea-burned  faces, 
had  been  drawn  up  in  a  double  line  by  some  open  trucks. 
They  stood  by  their  dunnage,  waiting  for  more  than  the 
order  to  board  the  trucks;  they  had  been  standing  for 
some  time  in  the  sun  and  dust  beside  the  open  trucks, 
waiting. 

Captain  Smee,  who  had  come  from  England  with  the 

draft,  and  who  thought  it  disposed  of,  looked  up  from  a 

refreshing  tumbler  to  see  it  still  standing  beside  the  line. 

"  What  the  devil  — "  said  he,  and  tilted  his  glass  quickly 

and  went  out. 

"  What  is  the  hitch?  "  he  asked  of  the  sergeant,  but 
before   explanation    could   be   given   a   short,   thick   man 
with  an  eye  hard  and  cold  as  that  of  a  cock  stepped  for- 
ward and  saluted. 
"Well?" 

"  There  are  some  Cape  boys  in  the  truck,  sir." 

255 


256  The  Rolling  Stone 

The  young  officer  became  aware  of  three  dock  labourers, 
brown-skinned  men  who  were  standing  in  a  corner  of  one 
of  the  railway-wagons. 

"  I  see ! "  What  he  did  not  see  was  how  the  natives 
could  be  prevented  from  going  about  their  lawful  business. 
He  cursed  his  lack  of  experience,  conscious  of  a  cold, 
bright  glance  resting  on  him,  appraising  him.  What  did 
one  do?  The  crying  need  was  to  do  something,  and  he 
plunged. 

"  Well  —  there's  plenty  of  room." 

Trooper  King's  eye  told  him  he  had  done  the  wrong 
thing. 

"  We  can't  travel  with  Cape  boys,  sir." 

Having  chosen  a  course,  Captain  Since  persisted  in  it. 
To  do  so  showed  you  were  a  leader,  earned  you  the  respect 
of  the  men. 

"  You've  got  to  get  up  to  the  front !  " 

"  If  you'll  give  the  order,  sir,  we'll  shift  those  niggers." 
An  offer  very  simply  urged;  no  eagerness,  merely  a  wish 
to  be  of  use.  Snee  looked  at  the  man  doubtfully.  A 
word  and  the  Cape  boys  would  be  sent  flying.  It  would 
not  do,  of  course. 

"What  do  they  matter?"  he  asked.  "There's  only 
three  of  them.  You  will  have  worse  things  to  put  up 
with  than  that." 

Harry  King  did  not  answer.  During  his  weeks  on  the 
troopship  extra  fatigues  had  taught  him  that  he,  even  he, 
was  under  discipline.  The  Army  was  a  school  from  which 
you  did  not  run  away  —  at  least,  if  you  did  you  were 
brought  back  and  shot.  You  could  not  even  down  tools 
and  walk  off.  The  liberty  of  the  subject  was  interfered 
with  in  every  way.  Nevertheless  you  had  rights,  a  few, 
and  in  order  to  prove  you  were  not  a  slave  you  stood  for 
them.  Until  Harry  told  the  draft,  they  had  not  known 


The  Rolling  Stone  257 

they  need  not  travel  with  natives,  but,  knowing  it,  they 
stood  immovable. 

"  Come,  men." 

They  looked  from  him  to  the  Cape  boys  in  the  truck, 
and  no  one  stirred. 

"  We  can't  travel  with  niggers,  sir."  Harry's  voice 
was  so  respectful  that  not  even  his  N.C.O  had  any  fault 
to  find ;  he  was,  in  fact,  of  the  same  opinion  as  the  man. 

Captain  Smee  drew  him  aside  for  a  moment.  The 
trucks  had  been  provided  to  take  the  draft  to  the  front 
and  no  more  would  be  forthcoming ;  but  —  if  the  la- 
bourers were  also  wanted  up  the  line? 

"  I  should  see  the  transport  officer,  sir." 

Harry,  left  with  the  draft,  began  to  talk  in  clipped,  ex- 
plosive fashion,  his  fashion: 

"They  thought  we  didn't  know;  but  I'm  just  from 
India.  No  white  man  travels  with  natives;  it  isn't  done. 
They'd  think  Jack  was  as  good  as  his  master.  Then 
where  should  we  be?  British  rule  in  India!  Prestige! 
And  what  started  this  war?  Coloured  chaps  getting  too 
big  for  their  boots." 

"  Boers  aren't  coloured,"  said  a  hard-bitten  Scot ; 
"  they're  Dutchies." 

"  It's  all  the  same ;  they  aren't  English." 

"  British,  you  mean !  "  returned  the  Scot. 

Trooper  King  ignored  him. 

"We're  here.  We're  willing  to  fight  till  all's  blue. 
Bursting  to  be  up  and  at  'em.  We've  chucked  our  jobs 
at  home  and  come  out,  and  what  do  we  get  for  it?  Be- 
cause we  didn't  know,  they  try  to  send  us  up-conntry 
with  stinking  brutes  of  Kafirs.  No  way  to  do.  Taking 
advantage." 

His  audience  was  pleased  with  the  little  interlude,  but 
the  sun  was  hot,  the  small  black  flies  teazingly  active* 


258  The  Rolling  Stone 

Now  that  they  had  asserted  their  rights  they  hoped  fresh 
and  more  comfortable  arrangements  would  be  made  and 
soon.  Dry  work  waiting  and  the  sun  was  no  joke. 

"  Old  sweats,"  concluded  Harry,  "  might  have  put  up 
with  it,  they'd  put  up  with  anything;  but  we're  volun- 
teers, we  have  rights  — " 

In  one  of  the  sheds  a  driven  transport  officer  was  deal- 
ing with  the  matter,  and  while  he  laboured  Captain  Smee 
talked  idly  with  another  man. 

"Who  made  the  objection?" 

"  Trooper  King." 

"King?" 

"  The  chap  who  kept  the  ship  waiting  at  Queenstown." 

"  I  remember !  Couldn't  get  leave  so  took  it  and  half 
the  draft  with  him.  Jove !  I  shan't  forget  seeing  it 
stravaiging  back  on  those  outside  cars." 

"  Which  had  been  borrowed  —  forcibly !  "  said  Smee. 
He  was  worried,  inclined  to  magnify  offences. 

"  Thought  every  moment  would  see  the  lot  of  them 
in  the  water,"  chuckled  the  other. 

"  We  took  it  out  of  them  —  him  —  afterwards,"  said 
Smee  viciously.  " '  Fatigue,  sir?  I  don't  know  what 
fatigue  is.'  I  bet  he  knows  now." 

"  Pity  he's  only  a  volunteer.  He's  the  sort,  once  he's 
learnt  discipline,  to  make  a  fine  soldier;  but  for  that  you 
need  time.  Can't  turn  out  a  good  brand  without  years 
of  maturing,  and  this  war  — 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders  regretfully.  "  What 
do  you  expect? — a  lot  of  farmers." 

Other  dock  labourers  had  come  up,  had  climbed  into 
the  trucks,  and  the  draft  had  stood  with  stony  faces, 
looking  on.  The  trucks  no  longer  concerned  them.  In 
good  time  accommodation  would  be  provided ;  meanwhile, 
if  one  or  two  got  sunstroke  — 


The  Rolling  Stone  259 

Fresh  rolling-stock  was  at  length  provided  and  the 
order  given  to  entrain.  The  carriages  provided  had  been 
cattle-trucks  and  were  without  seats ;  in  each  was  standing 
room  for  about  forty  persons.  The  men's  grievance  had 
been  legitimate.  The  authorities  had  vindicated  their 
right  to  power  by  attending  to  it,  and  the  draft,  placated, 
settled  down  contentedly  to  a  two  days'  journey  the  dis- 
comforts of  which  would  be  heartbreaking. 

But  what  matter?  Their  rights  had  been  acknow- 
ledged and  "  up  there  "  a  fight  was  on.  They  had  to  get 
"  there,"  and  flies,  dust,  heat,  parched  throats,  and  lack 
of  space  were  all  in  a  day's  work.  They  looked  past  the 
moment  into  the  future,  a  future  each  man  pictured  hap- 
pily as  lurid.  They  must  get  "  there  "  before  the  fun 
was  over. 

Harry  King,  no  longer  the  eternal  cigarette  between 
his  lips  —  the  doctor  had  forbidden  him  to  smoke  —  stood 
looking  between  the  bars  of  the  truck  at  the  country 
through  which  the  train  was  passing.  The  monotony  of 
ship-board  life  had  tried  his  temper,  and  he  was  glad  to 
exchange  the  waste  of  water,  deep  blue  waves  on  every 
side  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  for  this.  Land  must 
have  been  dubbed  terra  firma  by  some  one  fresh  from  a 
sea  voyage,  some  one  sick  of  the  ceaseless  movement  of 
the  water. 

Cape  Town  might  be  hot  —  strange  that  December  in 
old  England  should  mean  summer  here  —  but  except  for 
that,  and  the  coloured  folk  and  the  loom  of  Table  Moun- 
tain, the  place  was  not  unhomely.  Something  about  it 
was  familiar,  welcoming.  India  was  a  far  land  and  a 
foreign ;  but  this,  in  spite  of  seas  between,  was  next  door 
to  England.  As  the  suburbs  swung  into  view,  Harry 
could  have  fancied  he  was  gazing  at  a  Surrey  landscape. 
White  cottages  peeped  at  him  from  among  trees  that  he 


260 The  Rolling  Stone 

could  name,  a  thin  blue  reek  rose  on  the  quiet  air,  and 
about  the  lawns  were  flower-beds.  "  Roses,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  and  oaks  and  firs." 

Behind  him  his  thirty-nine  companions  were  easing  their 
discomfort  as  best  they  could.  Some  slept,  some  read, 
the  majority  smoked.  Very  few  were  interested  in  the 
land,  new  to  them,  through  which  they  were  travelling. 
Even  when  the  river  ran  through  the  Hex  River  Pass, 
climbing  through  magnificent  vegetation  into  a  region  of 
misty  rain,  they  saw  the  scenery,  not  as  a  wonder  and  a 
wild  desire,  but  as  the  cause  of  greater  discomfort  than 
they  had  yet  known.  Harry  proclaimed  to  himself  that 
they  were  soulless  brutes.  He  was  impressed  by  the 
quickly  changing  character  of  the  landscape.  He  won- 
dered over  the  rocks  and  depths,  the  strange  trees,  tow- 
ering yellow-woods,  specbooms  full  of  sap,  the  wild  vines 
laden  with  purpling  fruit.  What  a  big  world !  Three 
weeks  of  steady  travelling  and  a  new  landscape;  as  it 
were,  a  fresh  creation.  England  —  the  Hex  River  Pass 
—  two  out  of  a  dozen,  a  hundred.  The  astounding  va- 
riety !  Ah,  it  was  good  to  be  alive  in  such  a  world ! 

For  an  expansive  moment  he  forgot  he  was  doomed. 
The  mists  of  the  pass,  breaking  to  let  him  view  the  far- 
flung  wonders  of  rock  and  slope  and  torrent,  shook  a 
grey  veil  before  his  eyes.  As  the  rain  fell  he  remembered 
he  had  come  to  South  Africa  under  sentence  of  death. 

His  heart  sank,  the  hollow  of  his  chest  filled  with  a  sen- 
sation no  longer  strange  to  him,  with  an  ache. 

The  folly  of  an  idle  hour.  Mr.  King  had  dubbed  it 
vice,  but  Harry  knew  it  had  only  been  folly.  Some  men 
had  come  up  the  line,  they  had  spent  a  convivial  evening, 
and  towards  the  drunken  end  of  it  some  one  had  suggested 
the  bazaar,  He  had  not  been  very  keen  to  go  — 


The  Rolling  Stone 261 

A  still  night  and  dark.  They  went  between  windowless 
walls  and  through  thick  blackness  and  smells.  He  had 
not  known  where  he  was,  but  the  feeling  that  at  any  mo- 
ment he  might  be  attacked,  that  danger  lurked  in  the 
silence,  a  danger  of  knives  and  vengeance,  had  been  ex- 
hilarating. He  did  not  know  when  he  had  enjoyed  a 
walk  so  much. 

The  dim  lights  and  the  strange  perfume  —  that  burn- 
ing perfume  —  and  the  woman. 

She  must  have  known;  yet,  if  she  did,  why  —  why — ? 

He  had  not  harmed  her. 

Ah  —  but  if  he  could !  At  long  last  he  desired  her, 
desired  —  and  he  saw  her  face,  saw  it  through  a  red  mist. 

If  he  could  have  gone  back  to  the  little  room  in  which 
was  that  acrid  scent!  If  he  could  have  found  her  there! 

His  hands  clenched  on  the  bars  of  the  cattle-truck  until 
the  wood  creaked. 

When  the  Boers  had  been  convinced  of  folly  he  would 
go  back.  Though  it  took  years  he  would  find  her,  and 
then  —  the  knuckles  of  his  hands  were  white  as  he  clutched 
the  bar  —  then  he  would  squeeze  her  neck.  He  saw  the 
slim  brown  throat ;  he  could  span  it  with  one  hand.  His 
fingers  would  close  —  would  sink  —  yes,  when  the  war  was 
over,  when  peace  — 

Peace? 

His  grip  relaxed.  Before  peace  was  proclaimed  he, 
Harry  King,  would  be  dead. 

Dead?     No  - 

He  stood  aghast.  Impossible  that  he  should  be  dead. 
Not  —  dead? 

He  glanced  at  his  hand,  the  hand  that  could  do  so 
many  things,  and  saw  it  dead;  it  would  be  stiff,  inert, 
white.  It  would  lie  on  the  ground  until  lucky  devils  who 


262 The  Rolling  Stone 

were  still  alive  dug  a  hole  and  shovelled  it  in ;  it  would  lie 
there  in  the  earth  changing,  changing  horribly,  until  onlv 
bones  remained  —  a  raffle  of  nameless  bones. 

Harry  no  longer  saw  the  country  through  which  he 
was  being  carried.  What  was  South  Africa  to  him?  He 
had  come  hither  because  accident  and  folly  had  made  it 
impossible  that  he  should  live.  His  body  had  become 
foul  with  disease,  rotten,  and  he  abhorred  it.  He  could 
not  feel  it  was  himself.  Himself  unclean? — he  who  all 
his  life  had  set  cleanliness  before  godliness?  His  body 
was  not  himself  but  a  skin  that  could  be  sloughed.  Him- 
self was  what  thought  on  this  matter  —  what  felt  disease 
as  a  disgrace,  as  disgusting,  something  contained  in  this 
unfortunate  body  but  free  of  it. 

Ah,  but  the  time  had  been  when  his  body  had  been 
subservient  to  his  needs,  his  need  to  strive,  to  impress 
himself  on  his  fellows,  to  take  part  in  what  was  doing. 
He  had  been  content  with  it,  proud  of  it  —  the  inches  of 
his  chest,  the  girth  of  his  limbs,  his  punch,  the  punch 
with  a  sting  in  it. 

Twenty-six  years,  and  he  had  hoped  for  three  score 
and  ten,  for  more !  He  did  not  want  to  untie  whatever 
bound  him  to  his  body.  He  had  meant  to  set  the  Thames 
afire.  He  could  not  bear  to  think  of  others  doing  it  — 

If  he  had  deserved  his  fate !  He  glanced  at  the  soul-  . 
less  thirty-nine  and  wondered  whether  any  one  of  them 
had  lived  a  cleaner  life  than  he.  He  had  been  too  busy 
with  his  schemes  and  plans  to  waste  much  time  on  women. 
Yet  it  was  he  on  whom  the  curse  of  disease  had  fallen  — 
he  who,  because  of  it,  was  to  stop  a  bullet,  to  stay  be- 
hind when  the  others  sailed  for  England. 

He  imagined  their  return.  They  had  homes  in  the  old 
country.  They  would  go  back  to  their  workaday  lives, 
doing  odd  jobs  about  some  little  house  at  evening  after 


The  Rolling  Stone  263 

they  had  finished  a  day  of  toil.  Slatternly  wives,  grubby 
children,  ill-requited  labour!  Ah,  but  nothing  mattered 
as  long  as  you  were  in  it,  part  of  the  show. 

They  would  go  back  but  he  —  he  must  stay. 

Again  that  vision  of  earth  being  shovelled  into  a  pit, 
of  a  quietude  that  was  negation. 

He  had  a  theory  that  the  mound  on  a  grave  was  in 
proportion  to  the  size  of  him  it  covered.  The  mound  on 
his  would  be  high  —  yes,  till  his  chest  gave,  till  the  ribs 
sank,  till  they  were  pressed  against  his  backbone,  till 
they  lay  bone  to  bone. 

On  the  levelled  mound  the  grass  would  be  lush;  it 
would  be  well  nourished,  that  grass. 

Mechanically  Harry  lowered  himself  on  to  the  boards  of 
the  cattle-truck.  His  trouble,  the  ache  in  his  breast, 
was  robbing  him  of  vitality.  He  wanted  to  curl  up,  to 
hide  like  an  animal  that  has  been  injured.  Elbows  on 
knees,  he  sat  hunched  up  in  a  corner,  his  face  buried  in 
his  hands,  and  if  any  looked  that  way  they  thought  he 
slept. 

He  was  very  far  from  sleeping.  The  rhythm  of  the 
train  beat  out  his  fierce,  despairing  contention  that  it 
was  unjust,  unjust,  unjust;  and  through  the  slits  between 
the  bars  the  red  dust  of  the  Karoo  sifted,  settling  on  the 
men  and  their  accoutrements;  and  every  hour  brought 
the  draft  nearer  to  the  singing  of  bullets  and  the  roar 
of  guns. 

Harry  had  been  told  by  persons  as  ignorant  as  himself 
that  for  this  disease  was  no  cure.  The  doctors,  the 
people  with  information,  spoke  guardedly,  impressing  on 
him  the  necessity  for  treatment.  He  had  not  opened 
his  mind  to  them;  he  could  not  voice  its  crude  beliefs 
and  nothing  would  have  induced  him  to  put  into  words 
the  fear  that  was  tearing  at  him.  Acknowledge  that  he, 


264 The  Rolling  Stone 

Harry  King,  could  be  afraid?  But  he  was.  He  feared 
disease,  its  ravages,  the  helplessness  to  which  he  might 
be  reduced.  He  was  so  terribly  afraid,  that  death  had 
come  to  mean  escape. 

The   doctors    were,   perhaps,   lacking   in   imagination 
The  patient  was  a  young,  hitherto  healthy  man.     After- 
effects?    In   this   case   quite   unlikely.     The   fever  would 
run  its  course.     There  was  no  need  for  alarm  but  he  must 
be  sure  to  report  himself,  to  take  the  medicine. 

They  did  not  suspect  that  the  patient's  silence  covered 
terror  and  credulity,  that  he  regarded  them  as  paid  to 
make  soothing  statements  and  that  he  did  not  believe  a 
word  they  said. 

He  did  not,  in  fact,  pay  much  attention  to  them.  He 
would  take  the  medicine,  more  because  he  liked  taking 
it  than  from  belief  in  its  efficacy.  He  knew  that  no  cure 
was  possible  —  knew  because  he  had  been  told,  because 
those  who  told  him  had  backed  their  statements  with  ex- 
amples. He  had  had  wrecks  of  humanity  pointed  out 
to  him. 

He  had  told  his  father  and  his  father  had  been  over- 
whelmed. He  had  talked  brokenly  of  the  judgment  of 
Heaven,  had  grovelled  before  his  Deity;  but  the  main 
point  was,  he  had  been  overwhelmed ! 

He  felt  about  it  as  Harry  did.  By  different  routes 
father  and  son  had  come  to  the  same  conclusion. 

The  old  man  had  been  crushed.  Harry  felt  a  thrill  of 
miserable  elation.  His  father  cared.  He  had  not  guessed 
his  father,  so  stern,  so  aloof,  would  care. 

And,  though  he  cared,  he  did  not  waver.  Wonderful! 
Gee,  but  he  was  strong! 

When  it  was  his  own  son,  too ! 

Disease  was  foul.     The  body  was  made  in  the  image  of 


The  Rolling  Stone  265 

God.  Harry  had  sinned  and  had  been  overtaken  by  the 
wrath  of  his  Maker! 

He  was  doomed :  the  wages  of  sin  —  a  slow,  a  horrible 
death.  Mr.  King  had  read  about  it  in  an  old  novel. 
Though  shocked,  he  had  read  to  the  end.  There  were 
things  a  man,  the  father  of  a  family,  ought  to  know. 

But  oh  —  that  it  should  be  Harry ! 

That  he  must  rot,  slowly,  into  his  grave!  He  would 
be  a  misery  to*  himself,  a  burden  to  them  all.  No,  he 
must  not  take  his  life  — 

But  he  might  give  it! 

There  was  the  war! 

O  God  —  his  life,  Harry's  life ! 

Harry,  troubled  in  health,  confounded,  desperate,  had 
been  willing.  At  least  he  would  have  one  last  fine  adven- 
ture, finer,  perhaps,  than  all  the  others  — 

His  voyages  —  from  India  home  and  from  England  to 
Cape  Town  —  had,  however,  proved  beneficial.  He  was, 
if  not  his  old  self,  at  least  a  heartier  man  than  he  had 
been  for  months.  The  extra  fatigues  that  he  incurred 
no  longer  left  him  exhausted,  and  with  the  flowing  tide 
came  regret  for  what  he  was  about  to  lay  down. 

He  had  been  damned  unlucky! 

So  he  had;  still,  there  was  one  compensation,  and  he 
came  gradually  to  the  contemplation  of  it.  No  risk  was 
any  longer  too  great  for  him  to  take!  When  in  the 
past  he  had  dared  recklessly  he  had  known  all  the  time 
that  he  was  a  fool  for  his  pains.  Now  he  had  acquired 
the  right  tq  risk  his  life.  The  bullet  that  was  going  to 
end  his  trouble  had  been  cast,  and  by  nothing  he  could 
do  could  he  bring  any  nearer  the  appointed  hour.  For 
him  life  and  its  ambitions  were  at  an  end,  and  he  might 
please  himself  —  dare  all,  venture  all,  attempt  the  impos- 


266  The  Rolling  Stone 

sible.  Glorious,  splendid !  These  last  hours  would  be 
his  happiest,  his  most  satisfying.  He  was  going  to  the 
front  to  kill  Boers,  to  have  a  last  wild,  mad,  reckless, 
ecstatic  fling. 

He  sat  up  in  his  corner,  an  indomitable  little  man  — 
little  as  Roberts,  as  Wellington,  as  Napoleon ;  a  fighter 
too.  He  would  fight  until  they  dropped  him.  Every 
Boer  that  he  killed  would  mean  one  less,  would  bring  a 
little  nearer  the  triumph  of  England  —  not  Britain  as  the 
Scot  had  said;  and  he  didn't  like  that  Scot,  too  argu- 
mentative ! 

"  England,  Mother  England !  "  What  a  rallying-cry ! 
The  thirty-nine  —  decent  chaps,  all  of  them  —  had  come 
out  to  fight.  He'd  show  them  how.  They  should  fight 
till  they  won,  fight  till  they  knew  no  more.  That  was 
the  way  of  it.  You  were  trying  so  hard  to  get  the  other 
man  that  you  never  thought  of  yourself,  and  if  by  some 
mischance  it  fell  that  he  got  you  —  well,  you  didn't  know 
it.  You  died  but  you  didn't  know  that  you  were  dead; 
you  never  knew. 

II 

The  yellow-brown  waters  of  the  Orange  River  had  come 
down  in  flood;  they  were  swirling  in  suggestive  eddies 
over  the  Drift.  On  either  side  the  loamy  banks  had 
been  trampled  by  the  passage  of  feet  and  the  clay  of  them 
pushed  down,  pressed  into  the  sand  and  stones  that  formed 
the  river-bottom.  At  ordinary  times  the  combination 
made  a  ford  by  which  man  and  beast  could  cross,  but 
rains  up-country  had  increased  the  pressure  of  the  water. 
The  bed  of  the  wide  stream  was  no  longer  uniformly 
shallow,  the  opaque  water  hid  pits  and  holes,  and  on 
the  preceding  day  some  horses  and  a  man  in  charge  of 
them  had  been  washed  away. 


The  Rolling  Stone  26? 

Captain  Smee  was  worried.  Should  he  wait  till  the 
waters  had  fallen  or  make  another  attempt?  His  orders 
were  to  advance  as  quickly  as  possible,  but  when  it  was 
a  case  of  risking  the  men's  lives  — 

Responsibility  was  the  devil  and  all.  He  wished  he 
had  not  chosen  the  Army  as  a  profession;  he  wished  he 
knew  what  to  do. 

A  trooper  stepped  up  to  him  and  saluted.  Smee  un- 
derstood that  he  was  volunteering  to  make  the  passage. 
He  hesitated  a  moment  longer. 

"  You  think  you  could  get  over?  " 

"  Sure  of  it,  sir !  " 

"  But  Sergeant  Knight  was  drowned  there  yesterday." 

"  He  crossed  too  low,  sir." 

Captain  Smee's  face  cleared.  "  Very  well,  King,  carry 
on,  and  good  luck  to  you ! " 

Harry  waded  forthwith  into  the  stream.  The  pull  of 
the  water  was  cold  against  his  legs.  It  tugged  like  a 
thousand  fingers,  it  pushed  with  an  ever-shifting  but 
steady  push.  Yet  it  was  not  deep.  The  water  flung 
itself  at  him,  it  splashed  and  tore;  but  it  could  not  reach 
above  his  knees  and  the  foothold  was  good.  Harry  was 
happy.  To  pit  one's  strength  against  the  remorseless 
river,  to  know  it  up  to  every  dodge,  know  it  would  get 
you  if  it  could  !  His  round  pillars  of  legs  pushed  mightily 
against  the  turgid  current,  and  his  comrades  on  the  bank 
watched  with  an  interest  heightened  by  the  knowledge 
that  where  he  went  they  must  follow. 

He  reached  midstream,  and  still  the  water,  leaping, 
churning,  pushing,  was  only  up  to  his  knees.  Suddenly 
the  breath  of  the  watchers  became  a  sound,  a  cry  of  dis- 
may. The  water  had  risen  to  Harry's  waist,  to  his  neck. 
One  moment  the  footing  had  been  good,  a  strong  footing, 
hard ;  another  and  it  was  gone.  It  had  sunk  away,  there 


268 The  Rolling  Stone 

was  no  footing.  Harry  went  souse,  felt  himself  whirling 
in  an  irresistible  torrent.  The  river  had  him  and  was 
carrying  him  away.  On  the  bank  a  cry  of  dismay  ran 
from  lip  to  lip.  Harry  was  popular.  From  the  begin- 
ning he  had  foraged  for  them ;  he  had  a  hookey  thumb  and 
a  conviction  that  the  men  should  be  fed  like  fighting-cocks. 
His  passage  through  a  Boer  farm  left  it  an  unwitting 
contributor  to  the  needs  of  the  Army,  and  when  jam 
was  short  elsewhere  his  company  could,  if  it  wished,  have 
overeaten  itself.  Not  a  man  in  the  column  but  searched 
the  seething  waters  for  Harry's  black  head,  not1  one  but 
shouted  when  it  reappeared. 

When  Harry,  the  defiant  crest  plastered  in  wet  rings 
on  his  crown,  broke  the  surface,  he  found  he  was  some 
way  down  the  river.  His  instinct  was  to  struggle  against 
the  force  whirling  him  away.  He  was  a  strong  swimmer, 
and  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  his  life  was  in  danger. 
He  could  get  out  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  river  where 
the  current  curved  in  towards  the  bank ;  but  he  would 
not  then  have  found  the  passage  by  which  the  troops 
could  cross.  The  watching  men  saw  that  he  was  heading 
for  a  sandbank  in  the  middle  of  the  stream  —  saw  him 
gain  it,  pull  himself  out,  and  look  about  him  for  a  moment 
as  if  taking  stock.  They  watched  him  eagerly.  Would 
he  swim  across  or  would  he  try  to  come  back  to  them? 
Well,  he  had  done  his  best,  and  it  was  evident  the  crossing 
was  impossible.  They  must  wait  till  the  river  had  gone 
down.  To  their  surprise,  however,  Harry  set  his  face 
up-stream  and  began,  step  by  step,  to  stem  the  rushing 
spread  of  tho  water.  The  bank  shelved  a  little  and  the 
rush  grew  fiercer.  It  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to 
make  headway.  Nevertheless,  he  was  doing  it.  He  was 
working  slowly  up.  He  had  passed  the  spot  from  which 
he  had  started  on  his  forlorn  hope.  It  dawned  on  the 


The  Rolling  Stone 269 

men   that,  having  set  out  to  find  a  way  by  which  they 
could  cross,  he  was  holding  to  his  purpose. 

A  few  feet  farther  up  and,  turning  at  right  angles, 
he  splashed  out  to  the  middle  of  the  stream.  At  each 
step  he  sank  a  little  and  the  water  raged  at  him.  This 
time,  however,  it  was  in  vain.  The  bottom  was  sound  — 
a  bed  of  stones  and  sand  held  together  by  the  clay.  He 
crossed  without  mishap  and,  the  water  streaming  from 
him,  at  once  began  to  climb  the  opposite  bank. 

The  column  cheered,  and  Trooper  King,  looking  back 
in  surprise,  waved  to  it  and  vanished  over  the  brow. 
He  was  in  a  hurry  for  he  had  private  business  to  transact, 
the  preliminary  to  which  was  starting  a  fire ;  and  he  was 
wondering  whether  his  little  metal  box  had  kept  the 
matches  dry. 

By  the  river  grew  some  dinna-bessie  shrubs.  Harry 
selected  a  couple  of  large  flat  stones,  set  them  on  end, 
and  piled  the  space  between  with  the  oily  fuel  of  the 
plants.  His  quick  eye  had  noted  the  usual  litter  of 
kerosene-tins;  he  selected  one  and,  after  holding  it  be- 
tween his  eye  and  the  sun  to  make  sure  it  was  sound,  filled 
it  with  water. 

When  the  first  men  of  the  advancing  column  came  over 
the  brink  flames  were  leaping  about  the  kerosene- 
tin  and  Trooper  King,  with  an  absorbed  expression,  was 
cramming  his  breeches  into  the  bubbling  water. 

"  You  don't  lose  no  time,"  said  a  man,  halting  beside 
him. 

"  They  are  crummy." 

"I  guess  we're  all  that,"  grumbled  Bristow;  "they 
ought  to  give  us  a  change  of  clothes." 

"Or  time  off  to  boil  them,"  said  a  third.  "I  boiled 
mine  last  Saturday  week  and  in  two  days  the  little  chaps 
were  as  busy  as  ever ! " 


270 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  You    didn't    boil    them    long   enough,"    said    Harry. 

Scouts  having  brought  word  that  no  signs  of  the  enemy 
could  be  discovered,  orders  had  been  given  for  the  column 
to  camp  for  the  night  on  the  farther  bank  of  the  river. 
Harry,  his  skin  gleaming  white  against  the  riding-boots 
of  his  mates,  lent  a  hand  wherever  needed,  and  at  intervals 
returned  to  stir  the  scummy  contents  of  the  kerosene- 
tin. 

The  day  was  advanced.  Presently  a  meal  would  be 
served  out,  and  the  men,  well  fed  and  sleepy,  would  gather 
round  the  camp  fires  and  sing  and  talk.  A  smell  of 
coffee  rose  from  his  billy-can. 

Suddenly,  with  a  vicious  spit,  a  bullet  struck  the 
mimosa-tree  by  which  he  was  standing.  He  was  taken 
so  much  by  surprise  that  for  a  moment  he  stood  motion- 
less. The  flames  shining  on  his  queerly  apparelled  figure, 
made  it  only  too  visible.  A  bullet  kicked  up  the  dust 
at  his  feet,  another  flew  past  his  ear,  and  then  Trooper 
King,  coming  to  himself,  took  cover. 

The  scouts  had  been  misled  and  the  Boers  were  closing 
in.  They  had  arranged  a  surprise  party  for  the  column, 
had  hoped  to  catch  it  napping. 

A  bugle  blew,  the  order  to  break  camp  was  given,  and 
Harry  found  himself  in  a  quandary.  In  the  pot  his 
breeches  were  boiling  merrily,  but  not  even  his  hardihood 
could  face  slipping  his  legs  into  their  heated  trunks. 

What  to  do? 

"  Mount  and  ride,"  sang  the  bugle.  "  You'll  be  shot," 
spat  the  bullets. 

The  camp  was  like  a  nest  of  disturbed  ants,  but  in  a 
few  minutes,  with  what  they  could  save  of  their  gear, 
the  men  were  off. 

Only  later,  on  parade,  was  the  discovery  made  that 
Harry's  nether  garment  was  to  seek.  His  sergeant  was 


The  Rolling  Stone  271 

inclined  to  regard  the  incident  as  Trooper  King  trying 
to  be  funny.  He  shook  his  head  over  the  explanation 
offered. 

"  If  we  was  to  allow  such  goings-on  the  whole  company 
might  turn  up  without  their  breeches." 

The  worst  of  it  was  they  had  no  extra  stores  and  were 
far  from  a  depot.  In  the  end  Harry  was  fitted  out  with 
a  pair  that  had  belonged  to  Sergeant  Knight.  Unfor- 
tunately, that  worthy  had  been  full-waisted  and  long  in 
the  leg. 

Harry  was  fined  the  cost  of  a  new  pair. 

He  made  no  comment,  but  as  he  walked  away  was  seen 
to  draw  a  small  black  notebook  from  his  pocket  and  make 
an  entry. 

Bristow,  who  was  near,  could  see  he  had  entered  some 
figures  on  the  debit  side  of  the  page. 

"  What  are  you  up  to  now?  " 

"  I  keep  accounts,"  said  Trooper  King. 

"  If  you  put  down  all  they  pinch  it'll  be  a  pretty  long 
reckoning,"  said  the  other. 

"  The  longer  the  better.  I'm  good  at  addition."  He 
grinned  and  looked  up  sideways.  "  And  at  subtraction," 
said  he. 

Bristow,  thinking  of  jam  and  other  matters,  could 
agree.  "But  what's  it  for?" 

"  I  came  out  here  to  fight,"  his  wide  brow  had  come 
down  into  an  obtuse  angle  over  narrowed  lids,  "  and  I 
do  my  best,  and  this  is  the  way  I'm  treated.  Every 
farthing  of  mine  they  pinch  I'll  get  back,  every  little 
damned  farthing." 

"  By  the  time  we've  got  the  old  Bible-punchers  on  the 
run  you'll  have  forgotten,"  said  Bristow. 

"  Me  forget?  "  said  Harry.     "  I  don't  think." 

"  Oh  —  when  the  war's  over  — " 


272  The  Rolling  Stone 

Like  a  cold  hand  on  his  heart  came  the  recollection 
that  when  the  war  was  over  he  would  indeed  have  for- 
gotten. He  slipped  the  notebook  back  into  his  pocket. 
They  had  taken  his  money,  taken  it  unjustly,  but  what 
did  it  matter?  He  —  about  to  die  — 


Chapter  XV 


TROOPER  KING  on  his  own  initiative  had 
taken  a  prisoner.  He  had  been  swinging  along 
to  the  pleasant  jingle  of  chains  and  creaking  of 
leather  when,  as  the  line  passed  a  low  kraal  wall,  a  bullet 
"  zipped  "  from  behind  it.  It  had  picked  him  out  from 
the  rest,  drilling  a  hole  in  his  hat.  Trooper  King,  imagin- 
ing himself  hit,  had  forthwith  leaped  the  obstacle  and 
gone  in  pursuit ;  before  he  fell  he  would  "  get "  the  man 
who  had  fired  at  him! 

An  angle  of  the  wall  formed  a  sort  of  shelter,  and  as 
Harry  leaped,  a  man,  crouching,  bent  double,  the  man 
who  had  fired,  ran  towards  it.  Harry,  bayonet  in  hand, 
bore  down  on  him,  and  at  the  sound  of  hoofs  he  turned. 
He  was  a  big  dark  man,  finely  built  and  of  a  brave  car- 
riage, but  at  the  clink  of  steel  he  wavered.  He  could  fight 
from  behind  a  wall  —  he  came  of  a  harried  race  that  for 
many  generations  had  fought  thus  —  but  he  could  not 
fight  in  the  open.  Dearly  as  he  wanted  to  fire  again,  the 
look  on  Henry's  face  proved  too  much  for  him.  He  hes- 
itated, he  went  to  pieces. 

As  Harry  knocked  up  the  gun  he  saw  that  the  man  wore 
the  chevrons  of  a  sergeant.  "  You  are  no  Dutchie,"  he 
said.  It  was  not  thus  the  Boers  behaved ;  give  them  their 
due,  they  were  handsome  fighters. 

The  man  grinned,  a  helpless  vicious  grin.  "  I'm  Irish 
—  taken  prisoner  by  the  Boers." 

"  Turncoat !  "  said  Harry  rudely. 

The  other  scowled.  "  Been  doing  all  I  know  to  escape." 

273 


274 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Looks  like  it.     Well,  come  on,  now." 

He  disarmed  the  man,  watched  him  vault  the  kraal  wall 
and  stride  down  the  slope.  Trying  to  escape?  Why,  the 
swine  had  taken  deliberate  arm  and  then  run  for  it.  Irish, 
too  — 

On  rejoining  the  column  Harry  received  a  sharp  repri- 
mand for  having  taken  it  on  himself  to  fall  out. 

"  What  the  bloody  hell  did  you  mean  by  it?  " 

"  I  was  hit." 

"  Don't  see  no  sign  of  it." 

"  Well,  I  felt  a  smack."  He  was  surprised  there  were 
no  outward  signs  of  a  wound  and  that  he  felt  none  the 
worse.  He  had  been  told,  however,  that  this  was  often  the 
case.  Men  did  not  know  when  they  were  wounded,  did 
not  feel  the  loss  of  limb  or  fingers.  It  might  be  that  the 
bullet  was  inside  him  —  that,  without  giving  any  sign 
of  it,  he  was  bleeding  to  death.  "  I  thought  the  fellow 
might  get  away." 

"  Another  time  you  leave  the  thinkin'  to  me." 

He  walked  off  with  the  prisoner,  and  later,  in  the  or- 
derly tent,  Sergeant  Devlin  was  permitted  to  tell  his  tale. 
He  sent  a  swift  glance  about  for  Harry,  and  was  relieved 
to  find  that  the  trooper's  evidence  had  not  been  thought 
necessary  —  that  Captain  Smee,  young  and  fresh-com- 
plexioned,  was  orderly  officer  for  the  day. 

The  tale  that  Devlin  told  was  ingenuous.  He  had  been 
traveller  for  a  Sheffield  firm,  and,  being  up-country  when 
war  broke  out  had  been  seized  by  the  Boers  and,  in  spite 
of  his  protests,  forced  to  remain  with  them.  They  were 
aware  that  at  one  time  he  had  been  a  volunteer,  and  that 
consequently  he  knew  his  drill.  Since  then  he  had  made 
various  attempts  to  escape,  but  the  burghers  had  been 
suspicious  and  he  had  had  to  be  very  careful.  Today  his 
chance  had  come  and  he  had  seized  it. 


The  Rolling  Stone 275 

He  hoped,  modestly,  that  he  would  be  allowed  to  fight 
for  his  country.  While  he  had  been  with  the  Boers  he 
had  not  been  idle,  he  had  learned  all  he  could  in  the  hope 
that  some  day  he  might  be  able  to  turn  it  to  account. 

Captain  Smee  was  impressed,  but  his  dislike  of  responsi- 
bility made  him  hesitate.  It  would  be  better,  perhaps,  to 
hear  what  the  Battalion  Commander  had  to  say. 

Devlin  was  taken  before  a  heavy  man  with  little  eyes 
set  under  grey  bushes.  He  begged  humbly  for  work,  for 
an  opportunity  to  prove  himself. 

The  officer,  glancing  at  Devlin,  a  smart  and  soldierly 
figure,  saw  he  might  be  useful.  He  was  so  open  in  his 
offers  of  information  that  it  did  not  occur  to  them  he 
might  have  papers  on  him  which  would  have  been  even 
more  useful. 

"  Who  brought  him  into  camp  ?  " 

"  Trooper  King." 

"The  man  surrendered  to  him?" 

"  Yes."  They  did  not  ask  for  King's  account  of  the 
surrender. 

"Where  did  he  find  him?  " 

"  At  Blauw  Vlei." 

"  And  we  are  a  sergeant  short ! "  He  considered. 
"  It's  easier  to  keep  your  eye  on  an  N.C.O.  than  a  pri- 
vate —  yes." 

To  the  amazement  of  the  troops,  Devlin  came  back  to 
them  not  only  a  free  man,  but  a  sergeant.  He  was  to 
take  the  place  of  poor  Sergeant  Knight ;  had  been  put  in 
authority  over  the  very  man  who  had  taken  him  prisoner. 
Harry  could  hardly  believe  it. 

That  evening,  when  Devlin  would  have  joined  the  circle 
about  a  camp  fire  a  gruff  voice  forbade  him:  "Don't 
want  no  traitors  'ere,"  and  it  was  the  same  elsewhere. 

"  The  men  are  very  quiet  tonight,"  said  Captain  Smee 


276 The  Rolling  Stone 

to    the    adjutant.     "  I    haven't    heard    a    single    song." 

"  Uneasy  about  something.  It  is  always  a  bad  sign 
when  they  bunch  together  and  talk." 

The  men  had  gathered  about  Harry,  who  was  telling 
again  the  story  of  Devlin's  capture.  As  the  sergeant  ap- 
proached, their  voices,  discussing  it,  died  away ;  and  they 
waited,  in  a  pregnant  silence,  until  he  should  be  out  of 
hearing. 

He  cursed  them  as  he  went.  Boer  or  Englishman,  they 
were  nothing  to  him. 

"  Made  him  sergeant,"  said  Harry  in  disgust,  "  when 
only  this  very  morning  the  chap  was  potting  at  us  from 
behind  a  wall  ?  Beats  creation,  it  does !  Wonder  what 
yarn  he  pitched  them  ?  " 

"  Whatever  it  was,"  said  Bristow,  "  they  swallowed  it 
horns,  hoofs,  and  all.  If  they  aren't  lambs !  " 

"  He's  been  fighting  for  the  Boers,"  said  Harry.  "  And 
because  he  thinks  it'll  suit  his  book,  he  is  going  to  pretend 
to  fight  for  us." 

"  If  he  came  to  my  shop,"  said  Bristow,  who  had  been 
a  butcher,  "  I  wouldn't  give  him  credit  for  so  much  as  a 
pound  of  liver." 

"  He's  turned  his  coat  and  he  can  turn  it  again.  One 
of  these  days  the  regiment  will  find  itself  in  Queer  Street, 
and  it'll  be  owing  to  our  fine  Boer  sergeant.  I  know  one 
thing  —  "  he  stared  at  the  fire,  "  they'd  better  not  detail 
me  to  go  out  with  him." 

II 

De  Heig  Kranz  was  reported  empty,  deserted,  but  it 
was  necessary  to  make  sure.  It  lay  just  off  the  route 
the  column  was  to  take,  lay  convenient  for  a  camping- 
ground.  Sergeant  Devlin  was  to  ride  on  overnight  and 


The  Rolling  Stone  277 

reconnoitre,  and  Trooper  King  was  detailed  to  accompany 
him.  If  the  place  was  suitable  they  were  to  make  what 
preparations  were  possible  for  the  comfort  of  the  advanc- 
ing column. 

When  the  order  reached  him  Harry  was  standing,  one 
foot  on  a  log,  polishing  his  accoutrements.  He  stood  up, 
straightening  himself  so  suddenly  that  Corporal  Briggs 
took  a  step  back. 

"  I'll  go  with  any  one  else,"  said  Harry,  unaware  that 
he  had  been  detailed  for  this  work  as  a  man  whose  loyalty 
was  above  suspicion,  a  man  who  could  be  trusted  to  keep 
his  eye  on  the  specious  Irishman,  "  but  not  with  Devlin." 

"  You're  not  here  to  pick  and  choose  who  you'll  go 
with ! " 

"  He'll  betray  us  to  the  Boers." 

"  It'll  be  up  to  you  to  see  he  doesn't." 

Harry  stood  stiff  and  immovable. 

"  Come  now,"  ordered  Corporal  Briggs,  but  the  other 
did  not  stir.  The  men  stared  at  each  other  with  hard 
eyes,  neither  willing  to  yield.  "  Don't  you  know,  you 
bloody  fool,  that  disobedience  on  active  service  is  mu- 
tiny? " 

"  Anybody  but  Devlin,"  repeated  Harry.  He  had  tak- 
en him  prisoner ;  he  knew  the  man  was  treacherous,  that  he 
had  something  up  his  sleeve.  Trooper  King  could  not 
pierce  to  Devlin's  intention,  but  he  misdoubted  it  and, 
misdoubting  —  not  for  himself  but  for  the  unsuspicious 
column  riding  into  some  death-trap  —  stood  to  his  re- 
fusal. 

The  corporal  changed  his  tone.  King  was  the  most 
exasperating  chap  he  knew,  yet  he  kept  the  men  cheerful, 
also  he  fed  them.  A  good  man  in  his  way,  and  Corporal 
Briggs  did  not  want  to  get  him  into  trouble. 

"  Look  here,  King,"  he  said,  "  this  won't  do,  you  know. 


278 The  Rolling  S-tone 

It's  Army  discipline,  and  if  a  man  can't  knuckle  under 
he  gets  the  worst  of  it.  I  don't  want  to  put  you  under 
arrest." 

Harry's  face  was  mulish;  he  had  made  up  his  mind. 

"You  know  the  penalty  for  disobeying  orders?"  A 
pause,  but  Trooper  King's  hard  eyes  still  stared  unblink- 
ingly. 

"  You'll  be  shot." 

He  threw  a  note  of  pleading  into  his  voice.  Just  for  a 
notion  —  out  of  obstinacy  —  to  be  shot !  It  was  silly. 

"  Shot  at  dawn." 

Trooper  King's  glance  shifted.  He  looked  down  at  the 
bare  brown  earth  and  he  sighed ;  but  he  did  not  yield. 

"  I'm  not  going,"  he  said. 

Ill 

So  quickly  had  the  situation  arisen  and  developed  that 
Harry  was  still  dazed.  Between  men  carrying  fixed  bay- 
onets he  had  been  taken  to  the  guard-tent,  there  to  remain 
until  the  morning.  He  had  gone  quietly,  for  as  yet  he 
hardly  understood  what  had  come  to  pass. 

He  understood  better  when  he  saw  Bristow's  face.  The 
little  man  was  openly  distressed. 

"  Why  did  you  go  for  to  do  it?  "  and  "  We  can't  spare 
you." 

Spare  him?  Was  it  true,  then,  what  Corporal  Briggs 
had  said? 

The  flap  of  the  tent  fell,  cutting  him  off  from  the  life 
of  the  camp,  shutting  out  Bristow's  red  face. 

He  sat  down  and  tried  to  understand. 

For  a  time  he  could  only  listen.  Sounds  of  stamping 
hoofs,  of  men  whistling  at  their  work,  came  from  the 


The  Rolling  Stone  279 

horse-lines.  Nearer  was  the  beat  of  a  steady  tramp:  a 
nan  was  doing  sentry-go  outside  the  tent. 

It  came  home  to  him  that  he,  Harry  King,  was  under 
arrest. 

Under  arrest  because  he  had  refused  to  go  with  Devlin, 
with  the  man  who  shot  at  English  soldiers  from  behind  a 
wall ! 

He  had  meant  to  refuse  and  he  had  done  it. 

He  had  been  right  to  refuse  —  oh,  quite  right.  Strange 
that  no  one  saw  how  right  he  was.  Ten  days  previously 
Harry  had  been  one  of  a  firing-party  detailed  to  shoot  a 
deserter.  He  had  watched  the  army  surgeon  pin  over 
the  heart  of  the  blindfolded  man  the  square  of  white  paper 
at  which  they  were  to  aim. 

He  had  been  profoundly  sorry  for  the  poor  chap,  but 
he  had  not  refused  to  shoot. 

A  firing-party  and  he  in  the  place  of  the  deserter ! 

Bristow  and  Long  and  others,  the  men  with  whom  he 
had  slept  and  eaten,  his  comrades  in  arms,  they  would 
be  sorry  for  him,  but  they  would  not  refuse  to  shoot. 

"  They  shan't  blindfold  me,"  he  muttered. 

IV 

Harry,  waiting  outside  the  orderly-room  tent  with 
guard  and  witnesses,  realized  that  he  had  probably  only 
another  day  to  live.  His  purpose  in  coming  to  South 
Africa  smote  him,  and  suddenly  he  smiled.  The  joke  was 
on  him. 

Shoot  him,  would  they?  Well,  he  had  come  out  to  be 
shot. 

A  queer  end  to  the  business. 

That   touch   of   morning   coolness   made   the   sunshine 


280  The  Rolling  Stone 

pleasant.  He  was  attracted  by  the  veld.  A  fine  country ! 
He  would  have  liked  to  take  up  land  and  farm.  His 
mother's  people  had  been  farmers  — 

"  Right  turn.     Halt !  " 

They  had  taken  off  his  cap  —  ah  yes,  a  prisoner  went 
in  bareheaded.  He  was  in  the  tent  and  the  Colonel's  little 
gimlet  eyes  had  picked  him  out  —  Private  1278,  King, 
Henry.  "  Corporal,  what  have  you  to  say?  " 

"  Sir,  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-third  instant  I  was 
instructed  to  tell  off  Trooper  King  to  accompany  Sergeant 
Devlin  on  a  scouting  expedition  and  Trooper  King  refused 
to  go." 

"  Refused  to  obey  orders ! "  said  the  Colonel,  lifting 
the  little  bushes  over  his  eyes  into  a  grey  line  of  surprised 
displeasure.  He  took  up  the  charge-sheet,  read  it  over 
to  himself,  then  read  it  aloud.  "  Private  1278,  what  have 
you  to  say  for  yourself?  " 

Harry's  resonant  voice  quivered  slightly;  he  was  pal- 
pably ill  at  ease.  "  Sir,  I  took  Sergeant  Devlin  prisoner. 
He's  a  turncoat  Boer.  I  felt  I  couldn't  go  with  him." 

"  It's  not  for  you  to  decide  what  you  will  do,"  said  the 
colonel  sharply. 

Captain  Smee  leaned  over  the  table.  "  Sir,  can  I  say 
something  — " 

Colonel  Ruthven  signed  to  the  sergeant-major  to  with- 
draw the  prisoner,  and  Harry  found  himself  back  in  the 
sunshine.  It  had  grown  warmer,  not  so  pleasant. 

"  Orders  must  be  obeyed,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  For  the 
sake  of  discipline  —  an  example  — " 

But  Captain  Smee  had  not  forgotten  the  fording  of  the 
Orange  River.  The  circumstances  of  King's  disobedience 
were,  he  thought,  a  little  unusual.  The  man  was  brave 
enough;  it  was  not  as  if  he  had  funked  going  — 

"  Sure?  "  said  Colonel  Ruthven, 


The  Rolling  Stone  281 

Captain  Smee  told  his  story,  told  of  other  exploits,  ex- 
plained that  Harry  was  the  most  reckless  daredevil  in  the 
regiment. 

"  Then,  why  ?  "  said  his  commanding  officer. 

"  I  think  it's  something  between  the  men." 

"  Ah !  " 

"  King  took  the  other  prisoner.  I  dare  say  he  feels  that 
Devlin  ought  not  to  have  been  put  over  him." 

The  little  grey  bushes  twitched  and  the  Colonel  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  then  shook  his  head.  "  We  can't  over- 
look it  —  too  serious ;  man  must  be  court-martialed.  I'm 
sorry,  Smee." 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  to  lose  him,  sir." 

"  Humph  —  well  —  can't  be  helped."  He  made  a  final 
pronouncement.  "  Private  1278  to  be  sent  to  brigade 
Headquarters  this  afternoon  under  escort  —  sergeant  and 
four  men." 


Brigade  Headquarters  was  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  a  soli- 
tary hill  overlooking  a  wide  and  dusty  plain.  Villars  Dorp 
nestled  at  the  foot,  and  beyond  were  the  half-brick,  half- 
iron  sheds  of  a  railway-station  to  which  the  war  had  lent 
importance. 

The  tent  which  was  to  be  Trooper  King's  prison  had 
been  erected  on  the  top  of  the  slope.  Harry,  taking  pos- 
session of  his  quarters,  felt  them  to  be  remote.  On  the 
top  of  the  hill,  on  the  roof  of  the  world,  he  found  himself 
a  solitary  and  unconsidered  atom,  with  time  to  burn. 

He  hoped  it  would  not  be  long  before  the  court  martial 
was  held. 

A  day  passed  and  another  day,  but  nothing  happened. 
Though  his  guards  looked  forbidding,  he  must  question 
them;  he  could  not  go  on  like  this, 


282  The  Rolling  Stone 

He  got  but  little  satisfaction.  They  did  not  know  and 
"  he  was  a  confounded  nuisance,  that's  what  he  was.  Why 
did  he  go  disobeying  orders?  They  hadn't  come  to  South 
Africa  to  be  policemen,  no  blooming  fear !  " 

Harry  watched  the  sun  rise  and  set,  watched  it  day 
after  day  for  seven  interminable  weeks. 

Overlooked  by  the  authorities,  who  at  the  moment  had 
something  more  important  to  think  of  than  Trooper  King, 
his  needs  were  ill-supplied  by  those  responsible  for  him. 
The  food  brought  was  scanty,  consisting  mainly  of  mealie- 
pop,  the  water  insufficient.  Hard  work  dragging  water 
up  a  hill,  and  one  could  not  always  remember  — 

Harry,  who  set  cleanliness  before  godliness,  poor  Harry 
who  had  sacrificed  his  breeches  rather  than  go  verminous, 
had  not  enough  water  to  drink,  let  alone  wash. 

He  was  verminous  now. 

The  tent  was  insanitary ;  his  stomach  craved  a  change 
of  diet,  his  body  a  change  of  linen ;  do  what  he  would  he 
could  not  keep  clean. 

To  be  shot  was  one  thing,  but  to  lie  in  dirt,  to  want  food, 
to  battle  with  shadowy  creatures  that  grew  in  a  night 
from  stragglers  into  armies  — 

The  foulness  of  disease  had  been  a  haunting  terror,  but 
this  foulness  of  the  body  was  worse,  infinitely  worse.  The 
creeps !  He  had  nothing  to  do  but  think  of  his  sufferings. 
And  he  had  brought  this  on  himself ! 

He  would  not  go  with  Devlin,  would  not  help  to  betray 
the  column.  Devlin  was  a  treacherous  hound;  he,  Harry, 
had  not  been  thinking  of  himself  but  of  his  unsuspicious 
mates.  But  no  one  realized  that,  no  one  understood,  and 
there  was  no  one  to  whom  he  could  go  with  his  story. 

The  soldiers  in  charge  of  him  had  been  unfriendly,  but 
as  the  weeks  passed  they  became  merely  indifferent.  They 
neglected  him.  He  was  "  an  extra  fatigue," 


The  Rolling  Stone 283 

He  might  have  been  a  stone,  a  bridgehead. 

A  diet  of  mealie-pop  is  not  sustaining.  Harry  lost 
strength,  grew  haggard  and  unkempt. 

To  carry  on  day  after  day  in  this  squalor!  Talk  of 
hell-fire  —  that  would  at  least  be  cleansing.  Nothing 
could  live  in  it.  The  grey  and  shining  companies  would 
shrivel,  blacken,  his  foul  body  be  refined  away,  only  the 
metal  of  the  spirit  remain.  He  laughed  and  stretched 
out  his  arms. 

What  a  number  of  moments  were  in  a  single  day !  how 
it  dragged  and  dragged !  Men  were  callous  brutes.  You 
tried  to  help,  you  gave  yourself  for  your  fellows,  and  in 
return  they  tortured  you.  They  did  not  care,  no  one 
cared ;  there  was  no  one  to  whom  you  could  appeal.  In 
the  distance  a  machine  was  working,  was  grinding  out 
government  and  army  discipline  and  justice;  presently  he 
would  be  caught  up  like  a  grain  of  corn  and  ground  be- 
tween the  noisy  stones,  and  no  one  would  hear  his  protest, 
not  one. 

And  still  the  sun  rose  and  the  sun  set.  The  brawn  on 
Harry's  arm  was  melting  away,  he  was  nearly  thin  enough 
to  scare  the  crows. 

He  could  not  remember  how  long  he  had  been  on  the 
hill-top,  how  long  he  had  been  fighting  the  grey  and  shin- 
ing hordes  — 

If  they  would  only  put  him  out  of  his  misery ! 

VI 

Harry  in  camp  and  on  the  march  had  been  a  personality, 
and  Captain  Smee  looked  daily  for  news  of  his  fate. 

The  result  of  the  court  martial  should  have  been  re- 
ported to  him.  He  hoped  Harry  had  not  been  shot.  It 
was  not  as  if  he  had  struck  the  N.C.O. 


284  The  Rolling  Stone 

A  week  went  by  and  still  no  news.  It  was  odd !  Smee 
remembered  that  an  old  schoolfellow  of  his  —  Willy  No- 
lan —  was  stationed  at  Villars  Dorp.  He  would  be  sure 
to  know  how  the  case  had  gone. 

Smee  was  orderly  officer  again  and  4oo  busy  to  write, 
but  as  soon  as  he  had  time  — 

Nolan  would  make  it  his  business  to  find  out  what  had 
become  of  Private  1278.  At  school  they  had  called  him 
"  Nosey  "  because  he  had  nosed  out  everything  a  boy 
wanted  to  keep  hidden.  He  had  had  a  handsome  handle 
to  his  face,  a  good  door-knocker  of  a  nose,  but  he  wasn't 
"  Nosey  "  because  of  that. 

Smiling  over  recollections  of  old  days  at  Cheeley,  Cap- 
tain Smee  had  opened  the  purple  blotter  his  sister  had 
given  him  before  he  left  home  and,  poising  it  on  his  knee, 
had  written  to  Nolan.  Would  "  Nosey  find  out  what 
had  happened  to  a  man  —  Private  King  —  who  had  been 
sent  to  Villars  Dorp  on  the  28th  of  last  month  to  be  court- 
martialled  for  disobedience  to  orders?  The  circumstances 
were  peculiar ;  he,  Captain  Smee,  was  interested  in  the  man 
and  thought  him  not  altogether  to  blame." 

On  receipt  of  the  letter  Captain  Nolan's  glance  had 
leaped  the  pages.  "Old  Smee  out  here?  Well  I  never! 
What's  this—?" 

He  made  inquiries  but  no  one  seemed  to  have  heard  of 
Private  King;  there  was  no  such  person  at  Villars  Dorp. 
A  tiny  place,  and  he  would  know  if  there  were.  He  wrote 
briefly  to  Captain  Smee,  then  stumbled  by  accident  upon 
the  tent. 

"  Hullo !     Hullo  !     What's  this  ?  " 

A  prisoner?  —  A  Boer  prisoner?  Oh,  English,  was  he? 
And  why  was  he  there?  Awaiting  court  martial?  How 
long  had  he  been  awaiting  it  ?  Seven  weeks  ?  Good  God ! 


The  Rolling  Stone  285 

Disregarding  the  protests  of  the  soldier  on  guard,  No- 
lan threw  back  the  flap  of  the  tent. 

"  Phew !  " 

From  the  shadows  of  that  vile,  uncleanly  hole  Harry's 
face  looked  out  at  him,  Harry's  eyes. 

Nolan  saw  a  white  disk  and  those  eyes. 


VII 

The  finding  of  the  court  martial  was  that  Private  1278 
should  have  obeyed  orders.  The  time  to  enter  a  com- 
plaint was  after  the  orders  had  been  carried  out.  Taking 
into  consideration,  however,  that  Private  1278's  intentions 
had  been  good  —  that  he  believed  Sergeant  Devlin  to  be 
in  sympathy  with  the  enemy  —  and  that  he  had  already 
suffered  seven  weeks'  imprisonment,  the  Court  ruled  that 
he  should  forthwith  be  returned  to  his  unit. 

Harry,  enfeebled  by  confinement,  only  understood  that 
he  was  not  to  be  shot. 

His  appearance,  gaunt  to  emaciation,  had  told  in  his 
favour.  Captain  Nolan,  who  had  taken  up  the  case  and 
was  defending  him,  had  managed  to  confuse  the  issues. 
He  had  described  the  lousy  blankets,  the  tent,  the  food, 
the  condition  in  which  he  had  found  the  prisoner;  and 
the  good  men  and  true,  Trooper  King's  judges,  had  looked 
at  him  and  with  rumblings  in  their  throats  had  blamed  — 
well,  whoever  was  to  blame.  The  matter  must  be  inquired 
into ;  it  was  scandalous. 

After  all,  though,  the  man  had  disobeyed  orders.  Oh 
yes,  they  would  take  his  condition  into  consideration,  they 
would  let  him  off  as  lightly  as  they  could.  Still,  if  pri- 
vate soldiers  were  to  be  allowed  to  refuse  duty  it  would 
be  the  end  of  discipline.  Let  King  go  back  to  the  bat- 


286  The  Rolling  Stone 

talion,  let  him  be  put  under  Sergeant  Devlin,  let  him  find 
out  by  observation  that  the  man  was  no  traitor. 

The  Boer  sergeant  had  been  weighed  in  the  balance  by 
those  competent  to  judge.  They  had  pronounced  him 
worthy  to  serve  under  the  British  flag  and  the  court  up- 
held their  decision.  Time  would  prove  the  wisdom  of  it, 
time  would  impress  on  Trooper  King's  mind  the  folly  of 
thinking  he  knew  better  than  his  superior  officers. 

Harry  stumbled  out  of  the  farmhouse  in  which  the  court 
martial  had  been  held.  Upon  his  limbs  the  sun  struck 
warmly,  and  he  was  glad  of  the  warmth.  The  dust  blew 
across  the  plain  in  dull  red  clouds  but  it  did  not  annoy. 
He  was  free  of  the  tent,  of  its  semi-darkness,  of  its  evil 
conditions,  and  he  was  not  to  be  shot. 

He  had  had  seven  weeks  of  hell;  he  had  paid,  his  judges 
thought,  the  penalty  for  his  stubbornness.  Of  their  mercy 
they  had  overlooked  his  fault  and  were  sending  him  back  to 
his  regiment,  back  to  the  front.  The  sky  was  a  blue  arch 
and,  within  limits,  he  might  come  and  go  under  it  as  he 
would.  He  drew  deep  breaths.  He  was  content  —  he 
was  more  than  content,  he  was  glad. 

Yet  there  had  been  something  — 

He  wrinkled  his  forehead  trying  to  remember.  Yes, 
yes  —  something.  He  had  it.  The  court  martial  had 
sent  him  back  to  be  under  Devlin. 

Under  Devlin? 

Of  their  mercy  — 

VIII 

From  the  upper  windows  of  Byl  Kranz  Boers  had  fired 
on  the  passing  rooineks.  Foolish  of  them,  for  otherwise 
the  soldiers  would  have  gone  their  way  without  damaging 
house  or  property.  As  it  was,  a  lesson  had  to  be  writ  in 


The  Rolling  Stone  287 

characters   of  fire  across  the  farm  and  Sergeant  Devlin 
had  been  dispatched  to  write  it. 

Among  the  men  who  received  orders  to  acompany  him 
was  Trooper  King,  and  this  time  he  made  no  objection. 
The  seven  weeks  at  Villars  Dorp  had  broken  him  to  the 
necessity  for  obedience.  Whatever  happened  now,  he 
would  not  rebel. 

The  Boer  farmer  had  defended  his  home  to  the  last. 
He  lay  across  the  threshold,  his  beard  white  as  the  whit- 
ened stone.  Harry  was  sorry  for  him.  After  all,  the 
old  man  had  built  the  house  and  it  was  his  — 

He  should  not  have  fired  upon  the  soldiers  —  certainly 
not.  But  why  should  the  two  countries  be  at  war?  Why 
should  not  the  remaining  summers  of  that  busy  life  have 
been  spent  in  the  peace  of  man  as  well  as  of  God? 

The  flames  were  devouring  the  house  he  had  built,  de- 
vouring his  life-work,  devouring  him. 

Harry  became  aware  that  Devlin  was  shouting  to  him. 
What  did  the  fellow  want?  He  was  ingenious,  Devlin. 
If  there  were  anything  you  disliked  doing  he  saw  it  fell 
on  you.  Harry  on  his  way  back  from  Villars  Dorp  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  whatever  he  had  to  bear  should 
be  borne  with  Indian  stoicism ;  the  toad,  to  all  appearances, 
should  enjoy  being  under  the  harrow. 

He  had  had  need  of  his  stoicism. 

Devlin  was  rejoiced  to  have  him  back.  Mother  of 
Christ,  but  it  was  pleasant  to  have  a  man  under  you  whom 
it  was  your  bounden  duty  to  plague.  Between  marches, 
between  fights,  a  congenial  ocupation  to  think  out  what 
you  would  do  next,  what  you  would  say;  it  made  one  feel 
good. 

A  pity  the  victim  did  not  squeal,  but  a  clever  prick,  a 
clever  twist,  and  he  might.  Saxons  were  stolid,  but  they 
must  have  their  vulnerable  spots. 


288  The  Rolling  Stone 

On  this  occasion,  however,  Devlin's  mind  was  running 
on  something  of  more  importance  than  vulnerable  spots, 
something  that  concerned  himself  and  the  future. 

He  had  come  to  South  Africa  to  make  money.  He 
meant  to  buy  the  land  his  father  farmed,  the  stony  fields 
between  the  brown  bog  and  the  hills.  By  hook  or  by  crook 
he  must  earn  enough. 

And  the  Saxon  was  a  goose  who  laid  golden  eggs. 

The  Boer  was  too  slim ;  hard  as  Dublin  streets,  the 
Boer !  Devlin  was  glad  to  be  fighting  on  the  side  of  the 
English.  Sooner  or  later  his  opportunity  would  arise,  the 
money  he  wanted  be  within  his  grasp. 

He  fancied  the  time  had  come.  The  golden  egg  was 
to  be  found  on  this  lonely  farm,  but  before  he  seized  it  he 
must  make  sure  of  Harry. 

Harry  wasn't  to  be  trusted.  Unless  he  stood  to  make 
something  out  of  the  deal  he  wouldn't  be  safe. 

Devlin  raised  his  voice,  shouting  so  that  Harry  heard 
above  the  roar  of  the  flames. 

Though  reluctant  to  come  within  reach  of  the  sergeant, 
he  moved  in  his  usual  quick,  effortless  way.  Before  the 
noise  of  Devlin's  great  voice  had  ceased  Harry  was  beside 
him.  "  They're  driving  off  the  cattle.  I  want  you  to 
take  Billy  Deans  and  cut  round  by  the  stream.  They 
haven't  got  far." 

Harry  moved  as  if  to  set  off  without  delay,  but  Devlin 
detained  him. 

"  The  cattle  are  to  be  rounded  up  and  driven  into 
camp."  He  looked  hard  into  the  other's  face  and  found 
it  inscrutable. 

"  Look  here,  King,"  he  pointed  to  a  fringe  of  trees  at 
a  distance,  "  that  is  the  border  —  Basutoland.  Of  course, 
we  must  take  some  of  the  mob  into  camp  — 

So  that  was  Devlin's  game  —  cattle-duffing !     But  what 


The  Rolling  Stone 289 

Devlin  did  was  his  affair,  not  Harry's.  A  soldier's  duty 
was  to  obey  orders.  He  might  enter  a  protest  —  if  he 
survived  and  when  it  was  too  late,  but  meanwhile  his  super- 
ior officers  would  do  the  thinking  for  him.  Well  —  they 
might !  Clever  chaps  his  superior  officers ;  they  had  swal- 
lowed Devlin's  story  and  made  him  a  sergeant  and  their 
precious  sergeant  was  robbing  them  right  and  left ! 

"  The  rest  you  and  Deans  can  drive  over  the  border. 
I'll  see  you  get  your  share  — " 

Harry  stood  before  Devlin  neither  assenting  nor  refus- 
ing, and  the  Irishman  cursed  his  British  phlegm.  But  if 
he  handed  over  the  cattle  — 

"  Take  them  to  those  trees  and  wait  with  them  till  two 
men  come  up  to  you.  Ask  their  names,  and  if  they  say 
4  Budden  '  it's  all  right.  Got  it?  " 

"  Budden  —  if  they  say  the  name  is  Budden,"  repeated 
Harry,  and  turned  away.  Devlin  looked  after  him  for  a 
moment.  He  could  not  guess  what  King  was  thinking. 
Queer  chap  that,  so  unexpected.  You  might  have  thought 
he  would  have  been  glad  of  a  little  easy  money.  But 
whatever  you  did  or  said,  it  was  the  same.  He  set  up  a 
blank  wall  —  a  wall  that  was  both  high  and  impenetrable; 
do  what  you  would  you  could  not  tell  what  was  happening 
on  the  other  side. 

When  Devlin  got  the  money  he  would  pay  Harry  a 
share,  a  small  share.  So  far  the  man  had  only  obeyed 
orders,  but  once  the  coins  were  in  his  hand  — 

Five  beasts  were  brought  into  camp,  and  Devlin  ex- 
plained to  Captain  Smee  that  the  Boers  had  got  off  with 
the  rest.  "  Byl  Kranz  is  very  close  to  the  border,  sir." 

Some  days  later  Harry  straightened  himself  after  bal- 
ancing a  billy-can  on  one  corner  of  the  fire  to  the  peril 
of  other  precariously  poised  pots,  to  find  Devlin  at  his 
elbow.  The  footsteps  of  the  sergeant  had  been  deadened 


290  The  Rolling  Stone 

by  the  noise  of  the  camp,  and  for  some  moments  he  had 
stood  looking  on. 

"  Well  done  yourself !  "  he  cried.  A  light  deft  touch, 
so  useful! 

"D'you  want  me?" 

"  Brought  you  this."  He  held  out  his  hand.  "  Your 
share,  King." 

The  firelight  touched  the  coins  in  Devlin's  hand,  and 
Harry  glanced  from  them  to  the  swarthy  face. 

"  Not  for  me !  "  said  he,  and  stepped  back  a  pace.  "  I 
won't  touch  a  farthing  of  your  dirty  money." 

Devlin  ceased  to  smile.     "  You've  —  earned  it." 

"  I  carried  out  your  orders." 

"  On  the  understanding  you  had  your  bit  of  the  plun- 
der." 

"  No !  "     He  flicked  his  fingers  as  if  cleansing  them. 

For  a  moment  Devlin's  blood  ran  cold.  His  eyes  ques- 
tioned Harry  and  got  no  answer.  Always  the  wall  be- 
tween them.  "  You'll  peach?  " 

Harry's  turn  to  smile  —  a  bitter,  disillusioned  smile. 
"  Not  my  business ;  between  them  they've  taught  me  that. 
You  can  go  ahead,  you  can  rob  them  all  you  like.  It's 
nothing  to  me." 

"  Sound  wisdom !  "  said  the  other.  "  But  the  money?  " 
It  clinked  agreeably  in  his  hand.  "  Well,  if  you  won't," 
he  slipped  it  into  his  pocket,  "  there's  others  aren't  so  par- 
ticular." Even  those  few  pounds  would  make  a  difference. 

He  began  to  whistle :  "  My  father  and  mother  were 
Irish."  The  world  was  a  good  place,  and  overseas  was  a 
whitewashed  cottage  with  thatched  roof  and  an  earthen 
floor;  he  would  buy  it  and  rebuild  it  and  enlarge  it. 
"  Never  say  I  didn't  offer  to  settle  with  you." 

Harry  lifted  the  lid  from  a  bubbling  pot.  "  Don't  you 
fret,  we'll  settle  our  accounts  some  day." 


The  Rolling  Stone  291 

IX 

Sick  parade  was  nearly  over  and,  as  if  to  emphasize 
the  happy  moment,  the  smell  of  hot  coffee,  of  bacon,  was 
flowing  out  of  the  mess-tent.  Hard  lines  that  Captain 
Minns,  who  was  so  fond  of  his  bed,  should  have  to  take 
sick  parade  before  breakfast;  any  other  time  in  the  day, 
but  —  before  breakfast!  Really,  it  was  a  bit  rough  on 
a  fellow. 

"  Any  more  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  orderly. 

"  Trooper  King,  sir,  for  a  bottle  of  medicine." 

"  King?  Oh,  yes."  He  rummaged  among  his  papers. 
"  I'll  see  him." 

Harry,  burned  by  sun  and  wind,  hardened  by  life  in  the 
open,  Harry  at  the  top  of  his  strength,  entered  the  tent. 
The  hungry  surgeon  eyed  him  with  approval. 

"  Last  time  I  saw  you  I  took  a  specimen  of  your  blood." 

There  had  been  some  foolery  with  a  drop  of  blood  and 
a  tube,  but  Harry  had  not  understood  why  the  blood  was 
taken. 

"  The  report  came  yesterday.  You  will  be  glad  to 
know  that  you  need  not  come  for  any  more  medicine  — 
you  are  perfectly  well." 

"  Perfectly  well?  "  said  Harry;  and  something  so  deep 
in  him  it  seemed  to  lie  under  everything  else  vibrated. 
But  Captain  Minns  was  talking  nonsense.  How  could  he, 
Harry,  be  well?  He  was  suffering  from  an  incurable  dis- 
ease. 

"  Your  blood  has  been  tested  and  there  wasn't  a  trace. 
You  are  as  well  today  as  you  have  ever  been." 

"  But  —  "  He  dared  not  even  begin  to  believe.  Dis- 
appointment was  awaiting  him  round  the  corner.  He  must 
not,  no,  he  must  not  think  what  it  would  mean  to  him 
if  —  if  it  were  true.  "  But  —  " 


292 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Yes?     What's  the  difficulty?  " 

"Is  it  possible?" 

Captain  Minns  clapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  The 
proof  of  the  pudding  is  in  the  eating." 

The  little  tremulous  hope  had  shot  up  out  of  the  deeps. 
His  father,  other  men  —  could  they  have  been  mistaken? 

"  I  thought  you  couldn't  get  over  it,  that  it  was  always 
there,  ready  to  break  out  —  " 

Captain  Minns  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  "  You  have 
been  suffering  from  a  fever,"  he  said.  "  The  only  differ- 
ence between  that  and  other  fevers  is  that  it  lasts  longer. 
Rheumatic,  scarlet,  enteric  —  they  can  all  damage  a  man ; 
so  can  this  fever,  but  you  have  been  lucky.  I  do  not 
think  —  mind  you,  I  don't  know  for  certain,  I  can  only 
tell  you  what  I  think  —  but  I  don't  fancy  you  will  suffer 
from  any  after-effects." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  You've  sweated  the  poison  out  of  you  by  the  hard 
life  you  have  been  leading.  Also,  of  course,  you  have 
taken  the  medicine  regularly." 

Harry  was  smiling  foolishly;  his  eyes  were  bright,  his 
mouth  had  fallen  open.  Yes,  the  surgeon  was  sincere,  he 
meant  what  he  said. 

"  I'm  cured !  "  Harry  repeated  it  to  himself  as  if  the 
words  had  a  peculiar  sweetness  and  he  were  savouring  it. 
"  I'm  cured  —  cured  —  " 

"  You're  as  sound  a  man,"  said  Captain  Minns,  rising, 
"  as  sound  a  man,  barring  the  little  bother  with  your  mit- 
ral valve,  as  I  could  wish  to  see." 


Harry,  dismissed,  had  walked  away  and  had  continued 
walking.     It  was  more  natural  to  put  one  foot  before  the 


The  Rolling  Stone  293 

other,  to  go  on,  than  to  stand  still.  He  had  not  room  in 
his  soul  for  more  than  his  simple,  his  wide,  his  tremendous 
happiness.  He  had  offered  his  poor  and  tainted  life  and, 
behold,  it  had  been  given  back  to  him,  given  back  whole. 
He  was  to  live,  not  die.  His  feet  carried  him  beyond-the 
camp,  beyond  the  sights  of  it,  beyond  the  sounds;  they 
brought  him  to  a  quiet  place,  to  a  greenness  of  plants 
and  singing  of  water.  He  threw  himself  down  by  the 
stream ;  and  the  ripple  of  the  water  was  bright  and  the 
sides  of  the  leaves,  even  the  little  stones.  Ripple  and 
leaf  and  stone  —  he  gazed  at  them  and  smiled  at  them 
and  forgot. 

The  sense  of  deep  relief  had  been  contained  in  him  like 
wine  in  a  crystal  goblet.  He  was  Trooper  King,  a  crea- 
ture apart  from  other  creatures,  an  individual ;  but  as  he 
lay  on  the  edge  of  the  water  in  the  warmth  and  the  still- 
ness, the  crystal  walls  that  had  hemmed  in  his  personality 
thinned  until  they  were  become  a  part  of  the  circumam- 
bient air,  until  the  golden  light  of  his  happiness  was  dif- 
fused through  space. 

The  war  and  his  life  as  Trooper  King  dwindled  to  a 
black  speck.  He  was  stretching  out  to  something  be- 
yond these  carnal  manifestations.  The  black  speck  grew 
smaller,  it  had  been  and  it  was  no  more.  Harry  was  no 
longer  an  individual ;  he  was  one  with  the  force  that  casts 
itself  in  starry  systems  across  the  void,  that  moves  as  the 
tiny  amoeba  in  a  woodland  pool.  He  was  of  God. 

XI 

"  Show  a  leg !     Show  a  leg !  " 

Early  morning  in  the  camp  at  Roberts's  Heights. 

"Go  to  hell!" 

"  Well,  then,  show  a  leg." 


294  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Oh,  go  to  hell !  " 

"  Come  now,  no  more  of  it ;  show  a  leg !  " 

The  regiment  was  waiting  to  be  demobilized.  Peace 
had  been  proclaimed  and  the  greater  number  of  the  men 
were  returning  to  England,  but  a  few,  and  King  among 
them,  intended  to  remain  in  Africa.  The  Government 
had  proclaimed  that  a  grant  of  land  would  be  made  to 
any  soldier  who  was  prepared  to  take  up  farming. 

Trooper  King  did  not  know  much  about  the  conditions 
that  obtained  in  Africa  but  he  could  learn.  No  doubt 
the  State  would  help  —  would  dig  down  into  its  jeans  for 
the  intending  settler,  give  him  seed  and  implements,  loan 
him  enough  money  to  buy  a  few  head  of  cattle.  After 
he,  King,  had  collected  two  outstanding  debts  he  would 
go  down  to  Pretoria  and  claim  the  land  which  he  had 
been  promised. 

Meanwhile  the  debts  obsessed  him.  The  toad  had  to 
settle  with  the  harrow.  No  longer  was  it  sergeant  and 
private,  but  one  man  and  another.  Pigeonholed  in  his. 
mind  was  the  memory  of  a  hundred  trifling  indignities, 
the  pin-pricks  inflicted  by  a  cunning  mind  on  one  adjudged 
his  enemy  and  at  his  mercy.  Harry  longed  for  the  set- 
tlement of  that  account. 

To  reimburse  himself  with  the  moneys  of  which  a  grate- 
ful country,  in  return  for  years  of  volunteered  service,  had 
mulcted  him  was  less  important,  but  should  in  turn  have 
his  attention. 

Devlin  came  first.  Harry  remembered  his  fight  with 
Ewen  Nasmyth.  Then  he  had  been  out  to  kill ;  he  had 
felt  that  Nasmyth  must  be  wiped  off  the  face  of  the  earth. 
But  this  was  different.  He  was  going  to  humiliate  Devlin 
as  he,  Harry,  had  been  humiliated ;  he  was  going  to  thrash 
him  within  an  inch  of  his  life  and  yet  leave  him  that  life. 
The  man  should  live  on  and  remember.  Long  life  to  him ! 


The  Rolling  Stone  295 

The  regiment  had  been  ordered  to  parade.  Colonel 
Ruthven,  no  great  speaker,  had  uttered  a  few  inspiriting 
commonplaces,  had  told  them  to  be  good  boys,  and  had 
dismissed  them.  Harry,  listening,  cheering  his  late  com- 
manding officer,  had  yet  kept  an  eye  on  Devlin.  The 
Irishman  was  a  slippery  customer,  he  might  yet  escape. 

The  men  scattered  to  draw  their  pay  and  collect  their 
belongings.  Their  mood  was  holiday.  They  thought  of 
beer  in  tankards,  of  crowded  streets  and  of  the  welcome 
they  would  receive,  and  they  were  going  home. 

Sergeant  Devlin  was  in  as  gay  a  mood.  Many  a  good 
steer  had  he  sent  across  the  border!  The  proceeds  were 
lying  at  a  Cape  Town  bank ;  they  lay  there,  a  fat  sum  — 
enough  to  buy  the  little  farm  on  the  edge  of  the  bog,  the 
long,  low  cottage  in  which  he  had  been  reared.  The  pic- 
ture of  heather-clad  hills,  the  hills  his  opening  eyes  had 
rested  on  every  morning  of  his  young  life,  was  more  real 
to  him  than  the  green  veldt  and  the  ridges  of  rock.  He 
strode  along  whistling  his  favourite  tune : 

My  father  and  mother  were  Irish 
And  I  am  Irish  too. 

When  he  had  been  home  a  wee  while  he  would  marry; 
he  would  have  a  tail  of  boys,  he  would  bring  them  up 
to  agitate  for  Irish  freedom.  He  had  done  his  bit  for 
the  old  country  and  he  wanted  to  settle  down.  His  boys 
should  carry  on  the  work. 

/  bought  a  wee  -fiddle  for  ninepence 
And  it  is  Irish  too. 

No  haunting  melodies  today,  no  "  Wearing  of  the  Green," 
but  the  lilt  he  would  be  singing  in  the  good  nights  to  come 


296  The  Rolling  Stone 

when  the  peat  was  smouldering  red  on  the  open  hearth 
and  his  little  old  mother  — 

From  behind  a  kopje  came  Harry  King,  stepping 
lightly.  The  Irishman  saw  his  purpose  with  a  twang  of 
nerves.  He  had  forgotten  Harry. 

"  Going  home  ?  "  said  he,  with  a  glance  to  right  and 
left.  What  for  was  he  stravaiging  over  the  veldt  when  he 
should  have  been  in  his  quarters  packing?  And  —  Holy 
Mother!  —  why  was  King  carrying  a  riding-switch? 

"  The  corps  has  been  disbanded,"  said  Harry  grimly, 
"  and  now,  Devlin,  it's  man  to  man.  I  promised  I'd  settle 
with  you  when  the  time  came." 

"  If  you've  anything  agin  me,"  blustered  the  other, 
drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height.  He  was  the  ser- 
geant, the  man  in  authority.  He  dared  Harry  to  attack 
him. 

"  Of  course  I've  nothing,"  said  Harry,  "  not  a  single 
extra  fatigue !  Oh,  no  —  and  you've  never  thrown  it  up 
at  me ! "  A  procession  of  black,  distorted  memories 
crossed  his  mind ;  they  were  black  but  they  changed  slowly 
to  red. 

"  What  I  did  as  sergeant  —  "  He  would  fight  if  he 
must.  After  all,  he  hated  Harry;  he  would  enjoy  knock- 
ing him  down  and  kicking  him. 

"  Tell  that  to  the  Marines  !  " 

"  'Tis  a  fight,  then?  "  He  had  the  stomach  for  it  and 
his  boots  were  heavy. 

"  I  could  fight  you,  you  black  bastard,  with  one  hand," 
cried  Harry,  "  but  you'd  lie  down  and  howl  for  mercy." 
He  bent  the  switch  in  his  hands,  and  suddenly  Devlin 
recognized  it  as  his.  His  riding-switch?  "  I'm  going  to 
take  it  out  of  your  hide  with  this,  I'm  going  to  see  you  have 
your  stripes." 

"  Give  me  that  whip." 


The  Rolling  Stone 297 

Harry  threw  it  on  the  rocks  at  his  side.  "  All  in  good 
time,"  said  he  and  met  the  sergeant's  rush  with  a  straight 
left  j  ab.  A  right  and  left  to  the  j  aw  and  Devlin  dropped. 
But  Harry  had  not  done  with  him.  A  stripe  for  every 
extra  fatigue,  stripes  for  that  gibing  tongue,  and  then 
the  man  might  have  his  whip ;  he  might  carry  it  home 
with  him,  keep  it  as  a  trophy. 

"  You'd  hit  a  man  when  he's  down?  " 

"  Don't  you  make  any  mistake.  I  told  you  this  wasn't 
a  slam.  Come  on  or  I'll  kick  you  up.  You're  getting 
the  pay  you've  earned  and  I'm  handing  it  out  to  you." 

A  pity  Captain  Smee  and  the  others  could  not  see  their 
fine  sergeant  —  see  him  cringe !  Harry  gave  him  what 
he'd  earned,  then  flung  the  whip  at  him  and  walked  away. 
One  debt  discharged. 

That  night  there  was  a  stir  in  the  horse-lines.  When 
morning  came  it  was  discovered  that  two  of  the  Basuto 
ponies  were  missing,  they  and  their  equipment.  By  that 
time  Harry  was  on  his  way  to  Pretoria.  He  had  drawn 
from  his  pocket1  a  shiny  black  notebook  and  the  stub  of 
a  pencil.  He  smiled  to  himself,  murmuring  a  total,  and 
at  the  bottom  of  a  column  of  figures,  now  almost  illegible, 
he  wrote  in  the  clear  roundhand  of  the  drawing-office  the 
word  "  Paid." 


Chapter  XVI 


"^  T'OU'VE  come  to  ask  for  a  grant  of  land?  "     In 
^f        the  office  a  man  with  a  burned  skin  and  iron- 
JL       grey  hair  looked  up  from  the  letter  he  was 
writing.     His  dark  eyes  ran  swiftly  over  Harry,  apprais- 
ing him  — "  Another  hungry  Britisher !  " 

"  I  believe  I  have  qualified  for  one." 

"  Where  were  you  born  ?  Who  are  your  parents  ? 
What  is  your  claim?  Are  you  an  African?  " 

"  No,  English,  discharged  from  the  Army."  He  pro- 
duced his  papers. 

De  Groot  shook  his  head.     "  Nothing  doing." 

"  I  was  told  I  had  only  to  apply  —  " 

"  Oh,  the  land  is  there  all  right."  He  pointed  to  mark- 
ings on  a  map,  and  Harry  wondered  why  he  should  look 
as  if  he  were  enjoying  himself.  "  The  land  is  there  all 
right,  but  it's  for  Boers." 

"For  Boers?  "  A  trickle  of  feeling,  like  a  run  of  hot 
blood,  crept  over  his  brain.  "  But  we  fought  them  and 
licked  them.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  the  grants  are  for 
them?" 

"  A  paternal  Government,"  said  the  Civil  Servant,  "  is 
giving  the  land  to  those  who  took  part  in  the  war,"  he 
paused  and  smiled  at  Harry,  "  —  those  born  in  Africa." 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered!"  His  farming  plans  went  by 
the  board.  "  Then  it's  no  go?  " 

The  other  slightly  moved  his  shoulders.  "  The  place 
is  notching  with  foreigners." 

298 


The  Rolling  Stone  299 

"  Foreigners?  "  said  Harry.     "  Is  that  what  we  are?  " 

"  Well,  you  aren't  a  native  here,  are  you  ?  You  come 
from  another  country,  another  continent,  and  you  come 
for  what  you  can  get.  Personally,  I  don't  think  there's 
room  —  " 

"  Not  room  —  in  Africa  ?  " 

"  We  want  it,"  said  the  Africander,  his  grin  frankly 
hostile,  "  for  ourselves." 

"  By  gum,"  cried  Harry,  "  you  don't  want  much ! "  and 
went  out  into  streets  that  for  the  first  time  struck  him  as 
unfriendly. 

He  took  the  next  train  to  Johannesburg.  The  town 
was  studded  with  the  offices  of  mining  companies,  and  a 
man  who  had  served  seven  years'  apprenticeship  to  an 
engineering  firm  ought  not  to  have  any  difficulty  in  ob- 
taining work.  With  hope  renewed  he  turned  into  the 
Corner  House,  but  a  busy  clerk  referred  him  to  the  mine 
manager,  and  told  him  that  if  there  were  any  jobs  going, 
they  were  the  people  who  would  know. 

Any  jobs  going?  There  must  be  jobs.  The  Corner 
House  was  a  huge  concern. 

Harry  travelled  out  to  the  nearest  mine  and  called  on 
the  manager.  Hender  Thomas  was  glad  of  a  talk  about 
England.  He  was  from  Camborne,  and  had  the  Cornish- 
man  sent  to  him  every  week.  How  were  things  doing 
down  in  the  West?  As  to  a  job  at  the  Van  Tromp  mine, 
he  shook  his  head.  The  workings  were  flooded.  The 
company  was  discharging,  no<t  taking  on  men.  In  fact, 
mining  was  in  a  bad  way. 

"  Can't  you  find  me  some  sort  of  a  job?  " 

"  There  are  a  skite  of  people  with  good  qualifications 
looking  for  work  —  " 

"  I  can't  understand  it.  After  a  war  there  must  be  a 
lot  of  rebuilding  and  speeding  up  to  be  done?  " 


BOO  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Oh,  in  the  future,  yes ;  but  at  the  moment  we  have 
got  to  shake  down  and  sort  ourselves.  I'm  afraid  there 
are  hard  times  coming  for  some." 

"  Are  you  telling  me  that  with  a  trade  at  my  finger-tips 
I  shan't  be  able  to  earn  my  living?  " 

"Just  that." 

"Well,  I'm  damned!" 

"  If  I  were  you,  Mr.  King,  I  should  take  the  next  ship 
to  England." 

Harry  shook  his  head  and  his  face  set  in  stubborn  lines. 

"  I'll  give  this  country  a  go  first,"  he  said. 


II 

Doggedly  Harry  quartered  Johannesburg,  but  every- 
where he  found  that  the  companies  of  the  out-of-work 
had  preceded  him.  He  left  no  door  untried,  he  was  as 
energetic  as  a  terrier  in  pursuit  of  a  rat,  but  no  one  seemed 
in  need  of  his  services.  His  papers  were  in  order,  he 
had  recommendations  from  every  firm  that  had  employed 
him,  but  mining-house  after  mining-house  turned  him 
down.  Places  of  business,  offices,  shops  —  no  vacancies ! 
His  feet  grew  sore  with  beating  the  streets  in  his  fruitless 
search.  The  gold  in  his  pockets  changed  into  silver,  and 
that  melted  until  he  had  not  the  wherewithal  to  keep  life 
in  his  craving  body.  Bitter  days  for  Harry!  He  had 
no  friends  in  Johannesburg,  not  even  an  acquaintance, 
and  he  was  on  his  beam-ends.  For  a  fortnight  he  was 
penniless,  sleeping  out,  drinking  at  the  public  fountain, 
tightening  his  belt  over  an  empty  stomach.  Poor  Harry ! 
Eyes  bright  with  hunger  and  the  heavy  bones  of  his  face 
standing  out  in  a  fierce  protest.  The  only  people  to  rea- 
lize he  was  starving  were  outcasts  like  himself,  and  dur- 


The  Rolling  Stone 301 

ing  that  fortnight  what  food  he  had  was  the  gift  of  pros- 
titute and  felon. 

Bit  by  bit  Harry's  possessions  had  disappeared.  He 
clung  to  the  wallet  that  held  his  papers,  clung  also  to  the 
shiny  black  notebook  which  had  borne  witness  to  the  in- 
gratitude of  "  England,  mighty  mother."  The  notebook 
was  at  that  period  something  of  a  comfort  to  the  poor 
fellow,  for  he  was  able  to  enter  in  it  vague  accounts  of 
the  situation. 

"  What  a  desperate  feeling  I  have  about  things  gener- 
ally! The  awful  loneliness  of  it  all!  0  God,  that  I 
sn6uld  have  come  to  this  —  torture,  despair,  a  derelict ! 
Read  I  can't ;  hope  I  can't ;  struggle  I  can't." 

That  day  he  made  money  in  a  drinking-bar  by  a  lucky 
bet.  Had  he  lost  he  would  have  been  unable  to  pay.  He 
had  been  certain,  however,  that  he  would  win.  He  bought 
with  the  money  a  thimble-rigging  outfit ! 

"  The  difference,"  wrote  Harry  in  the  shiny  black  note- 
book, "  between  the  fellow  who  succeeds  and  the  one  who 
fails  is  that  the  one  gets  up  and  chases  after  the  man 
who  needs  him  and  the  other  sits  and  waits  to  be  hunted 
up." 

Pleased  with  that,  he  wrote  under  it,  "  Very  true." 

Yet  he  did  not  so  much  chase  after  men  who  needed 
him  as  insist  to  any  and  every  one  he  met  that  he  was 
the  fellow  who  could  make  the  business,  the  show,  the 
mine  in  which  they  were  interested  a  success. 

In  consequence  of  these  tactics,  during  the  next  four 
years  he  played  many  parts. 

He  walked  on  at  a  theatre ;  he  toured  the  country  with 
a  circus  as  one  of  the  Saxon  Brothers,  boxers  and  strong 
men;  he  got  a  job  as  engineer  in  a  gold-mine;  he  was  up- 
country  on  a  farm.  Eventually  he  went  into  business 
with  a  man  named  McFarlane.  The  said  McFarlane  was. 


302  The  Rolling  8-tone 

the  owner  of  two  stores  and  required  a  partner ;  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  Harry  should  manage  one  and  that  they 
should  share  the  profits.  He  took  the  partnership  in 
happy-go-lucky  fashion,  signed  a  deed  without  bothering 
to  read  it  through,  and  only  after  he  had  put  in  six 
months'  work  did  he  learn  that  the  stores  were  mortgaged. 

"  He  is  a  fool,"  wrote  Harry  in  the  notebook,  "  who 
when  he  bumps  facts  does  not  recognize  them.  I've  been 
careless." 

He  closed  the  store,  said  good-bye  to  Juliana  van  Grut- 
ten,  the  owner  of  the  nearest  farm  —  a  young  Dutch- 
woman who  had  shown  him  hospitality  —  and  started  for 
McFarlane's  house.  He  was  not  sorry  to  leave.  Jul- 
iana's father  and  brothers  had  been  killed  in  the  war  and 
she  had  offered  to  make  him  manager  of  the  farm.  From 
manager  to  husband  is  but  a  step,  and  Harry  by  this  time 
knew  that  he  didn't  want  to  settle  in  the  Orange  River 
Colony  as  a  farmer.  But  Juliana  had  cooked  him  wonder- 
ful hot  suppers !  He  did  not  refuse  her  offer.  It  was  his 
duty  to  settle  with  McFarlane,  then  he  would  see. 

He  was  not  sorry  to  shut  down  the  store.  Though  he 
had  tasted  the  pleasure  of  making  money,  he  found  that 
sitting  at  the  receipt  of  custom  was  dull  work.  During 
the  six  months  he  had  grown  restless  at  times,  as  the  note- 
book bore  witness,  even  depressed. 

"  Sick  and  weary  of  it  all." 

"  After  getting  into  bed  last  night  felt  the  same  old 
feeling  of  depression." 

"  Miserable  scabby  lot  in  this  neighbourhood,  disgusted 
with  them ! " 

"  Weary,  weary  weary." 

He  rode  off  with  a  light  heart  and  a  merry.  McFarlane 
had  cheated  him  and  must  be  punished.  It  was  his, 


The  Rolling  Stone 303 

Harry's,  duty  to  bring  him  to  justice.  The  man  was  a 
menace  to  society ;  he  must  be  discredited ! 

Unfortunately  for  Harry's  purpose,  McFarlane  had  a 
wife  and  children,  and  to  punish  the  man  in  purse  and 
reputation  would  have  injured  them.  When  could  Harry 
resist  the  appeal  of  weakness?  He  gave  the  man  a  thrash- 
ing and  did  not  prosecute. 

His  next  essay  proved  more  satisfactory.  With  the 
revival  of  trade  and  agriculture  came  a  demand  for  every 
sort  of  tool  and  machine.  Harry  saw  his  chance.  He 
and  another  engineer,  pooling  their  resources,  sent  a  care- 
fully considered  order  to  a  firm  in  Birmingham,  to  an- 
other in  Sheffield.  They  knew  what  the  Transvaal  re- 
quired, they  knew  where  the  goods  could  be  obtained ;  and 
from  the  beginning  the  firm  of  King  and  Cavendish  pros- 
pered. The  difficulty  was  capital.  So  good  were  the 
prospects  of  the  young  firm,  however,  that  Harry  felt 
justified  in  asking  his  father  to  lend  him  five  hundred 
pounds. 

By  return  of  mail  came  a  draft  for  the  amount. 

But  the  same  mail  brought  a  letter  from  James.  The 
family  thought  Harry  had  no  business  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  old  man's  generosity.  Five  hundred  pounds 
was  a  large  sum,  and  Harry's  ventures  had  not  hitherto 
proved  successful.  Though  the  family  hoped  he  would 
have  better  luck  in  the  future  — 

"  Back  it  goes !  "  said  Harry  furiously,  and  returned  it 
with  grateful  thanks. 

Not  a  word  more. 

Nice  brotherly  act  on  the  part  of  James  to  twit  him 
with  his  lack  of  success !  A  fellow  might  be  butted  all 
over  the  ring  for  nineteen  rounds  yet  land  on  the  solar 
plexus  of  the  proposition  on  the  twentieth. 


304 The  Rolling  S-tone 

Just  like  James  not  to  be  able  to  see  an  inch  before  his 
nose!  Why,  there  was  a  fortune  in  this  tool  business. 
If  Richard  had  been  in  England  — 

It  occurred  to  him  that  Richard  was,  like  himself,  in 
Africa,  that  he  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  big  pear-shaped 
bit  of  land.  He  had  not  thought  of  it  before. 

A  pity  they  would  not  lend  him  the  five  hundred  pounds. 
Without  capital  he  could  not  make  the  little  business  into 
a  big  one,  and  what  was  a  trickle  of  orders  when  you 
should  be  having  a  river  of  them? 

"  Oh,  there's  a  fortune  in  it  all  right,"  he  said  to  Cav- 
endish, "  but  not  for  me." 

He  peddled  ploughshares  and  knives,  steel  goods  and 
ironmongery,  for  a  few  months  longer ;  but  he  was  growing 
restless. 

"  Look  here,  Cavendish,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I've  had 
enough  of  it.  You  can  keep  the  business.  I  want  to  be 
off." 

Cavendish  had  more  patience;  he  was  the  dogged  Eng- 
lishman; he  would  not  weary  of  the  slow  building  which 
would  bring  so  many  of  the  things  the  heart  of  man  de- 
sires. 

"  How  about  the  name  —  King  and  Cavendish  ?  " 

"  Let  it  stay  as  it  is.     After  all,  it  was  my  idea." 

Today  the  firm  is  mighty  in  the  land  of  Ham,  a  monu- 
ment of  peaceful  penetration,  and  Cavendish  is  a  great 
man ;  but  Harry  has  never  regretted  his  decision. 

"  I'd  have  gone  mouldy,  grown  moss  on  me,  if  I'd  stayed 
any  longer." 

But  it  pleases  him  to  see  the  name.  "  Yes  —  King  and 
Cavendish  —  just  one  of  my  ideas." 


The  Rolling  Stone  305 


III 

Richard  King,  on  a  Government  launch,  was  running 
down  to  meet  his  brother.  Harry  had  written  to  say  he 
was  coming  via  Delagoa  Bay,  through  Suez,  past  the  salt 
lakes  of  Ismailia,  and  so  to  Port  Said.  He  had  neglected 
to  say  that  he  was  travelling  steerage. 

Richard  was  full  of  pleasant  anticipations.  He  would 
be  glad  to  see  Harry,  to  take  him  round  and  give  him  a 
good  time.  During  the  last  few  years  the  family  had 
scattered.  Bet  was  in  Buenos  Ayres  with  her  husband  and 
Nancy  in  Canada.  The  Codger  was  married,  and  that 
seemed  to  have  lifted  him  out  of  the  family  circle  as  com- 
pletely as  if  he  had  gone  to  heaven.  Richard  was  vaguely 
aware  that  though  the  life  he  led  suited  him,  though  he 
was  on  the  whole  content,  the  tumultuous  family  circle  in 
the  old  home  had  been  more  stimulating.  He  missed,  in 
the  polish  of  his  later  days,  the  rough  sincerity  of  brothers 
and  sisters.  He  was  really  very  glad  that  Harry  was 
coming  to  stay  with  them. 

It  didn't  matter  what  Ethel  thought. 

There  were  the  four  children.  Harry  was  such  a  fav- 
ourite with  children.  He,  Richard,  would  enjoy  showing 
him  the  baby.  Fine  little  chap  the  baby,  a  King  every 
inch  of  him  — 

That  must  be  the  ship ! 

So  eager  was  he  that  he  nearly  overlooked  Harry,  in 
the  steerage  —  Harry,  who,  not  expecting  to  be  met,  was 
standing  farewell  drinks  to  the  friends  he  had  made  dur- 
ing the  voyage.  It  was  he  who,  glancing  up,  caught  sight 
of  Richard  interviewing  the  captain.  Mr.  Henry  King? 
The  captain  did  not  remember  the  name.  No,  he  wasn't. 
on  board,  must  have  missed  the  boat.  The  Government 


306  The  Rolling  Stone 

official,  the  Government  launch,  did  not  suggest  the  steer- 
age. 

Richard  saw  Harry  coming  swiftly  down  the  deck, 
Harry  looking  as  if  he  had  had  a  rough-and-tumble  voy- 
age. The  captain  also  saw  him. 

"  Er  —  in  the  third  class  —  "  said  he. 

"  Oh,"  said  Richard  lightly,  as  he  grasped  the  situation, 
"  my  brother  is  very  eccentric." 

"  Same  old  crackpot,"  he  said,  as  they  shook  hands, 
"  and  why  couldn't  you  travel  like  a  Christian?  I  nearly 
missed  you." 

"  Seemed  a  pity  to  waste  the  money." 

"  Well  —  get  your  things  and  come  along.  We've  a 
dinner-party  on  tonight,  and  I'm  in  a  hurry.  I  say,  I'm 
jolly  glad  to  see  you,  old  man." 

"  Same  here."  They  plunged  into  comfortable  talk, 
and  it  seemed  to  Harry  only  a  few  minutes  before  he  was 
following  Richard  into  a  cool  and  spacious  house,  Rich- 
ard's house. 

"  You  do  yourself  well,"  he  said,  aware  of  himself  as 
very  much  the  younger  brother.  He  was  the  rolling  stone, 
that,  as  it  rolled,  touched  earth  with  every  side  of  it,  with 
every  bit  of  its  surface  —  that  was  a  humble  thing,  kicked 
on  by  chance.  Richard  was  different;  he  was  rooted,  a 
plant,  and  he  had  grown  to  a  stately  height.  Wonderful 
man,  Richard. 

"  I  say,  Dick,  about  that  dinner-party !  " 

"Well?" 

"  I  haven't  any  dress  clothes." 

Richard  considered.  "  You'll  have  to  wear  my  old 
suit." 

"  It  would  trail  on  the  ground !  " 

"  I'll  ask  Ethel  about  it.  And  look  here,  Henry,  the 
Sirdar  is  coming  and  people  like  that.  They  may  be 


The  Rolling  Stone 307 

useful  in  getting  you  a  job.     You  try  and  interest  them." 

"  All  right,"  said  Harry  cheerfully. 

When,  an  hour  later,  they  went  to  dress,  Richard  de- 
layed his  brother  for  a  moment. 

"  You  haven't  seen  my  youngest." 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you  —  " 

"  The  nursery  is  here." 

They  found  the  baby  in  his  bath,  a  healthy  youngster 
with  the  clear  skin  of  the  Kings.  He  turned  long  blue 
eyes  on  his  uncle  and  decided  to  smile.  Harry  held  out 
a  hand  and  with  a  thrill  felt  little  fingers  close  about  his 
thumb  and  cling. 

"  What  lunch-hooks  he's  got ;  there's  strength  for  you !  " 
He  pulled  gently,  and  the  baby,  clinging,  rose  a  little  in 
the  water.  "  He's  going  to  be  a  fighter,  that  one.  Wish 
I  could  have  the  training  of  him.  That's  right,  punch 
your  old  uncle,  hit  him  hard.  What's  his  name,  Dick?" 

"  Henry." 

"You  don't  say  so?"  The  thrill  again.  What  a  jolly 
youngster,  and  he  was  Richard's !  The  luck  some  people 
had  !  Well,  time  enough. 

"  Henry,"  too.  Another  Harry  King !  It  made  you 
feel  queer  to  think  of  it.  "  I  must  cross  his  hand." 

Ethel  had  come  in  and  was  looking  on.  Her  brother- 
in-law  turned  to  her.  "Are  you  superstitious?" 

"  Not  more  than  other  people." 

He  took  some  coins  out  of  his  pocket  and,  selecting  a 
sovereign  bearing  the  date  1905,  crossed  the  baby's  pink 
palm  with  it.  "  You  must  take  the  first  sock  he  wore ; 
have  you  got  it?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  Put  this  talisman  in  it  and  keep  it  till  he's  old  enough 
to  know  its  value.  Look ! "  He  showed  a  sovereign 
minted  in  1874.  "  Not  a  day  passes  but  I  turn  this 


308  The  Rolling  Stone 

over  two  or  three  times.  Influence  is  a  factor  in  our  lives 
of  which  we  know  nothing.  The  stars,  this  coin,  I  don't 
know  how  it  may  influence  my  life." 

Richard  moved  impatiently.  The  queer  chap  that 
Harry  was  with  his  half-savage  beliefs !  And  Ethel  was 
looking  impressed.  She  would  put  the  coin  in  the  sock 
and  keep  it  for  baby  Henry.  Trust  a  woman! 

"  Come  along  or  we  shall  never  be  ready." 

IV 

The  women  had  left  the  men  to  their  cigars  and  wine. 

"  Person  from  the  office,  sir,"  said  the  dark  servant  at 
Richard's  elbow ;  "  says  he  will  not  keep  you  long." 

"Tell  him,"  said  Richard  softly,  "to  go  to  hell  and 
wait  for  me  there." 

"  He  says  the  mail  goes  out  tonight,  sir." 

Richard  resigned  himself.  His  guests  would  excuse 
him.  His  subordinate  was  fresh  from  England,  did  not 
yet  know  the  ropes. 

He  dispatched  the  business  —  it  was,  after  all,  of  slight 
importance  —  and  returned.  As  he  opened  the  door  he 
was  conscious  that  the  hum  of  general  conversation  had 
ceased,  that  one  resonant  voice  was  dominating  the  room. 
What  was  Harry  saying? 

"  I  had  no  food  that  day  or  the  next,  then  a  bitch  who'd 
come  down  to  selling  matches  in  the  street  spoke  to  me. 
*  Hullo,  my  old  toe-rag,'  says  she,  '  you  look  as  if  you'd 
bumped  the  rock.'  I  wasn't  asking  help,  mind  you  — 
sooner  died  —  but  when  she  spoke  to  me  I  nearly  broke 
down.  Not  a  word,  not  a  kindness,  not  a  bit  of  bread  for 
me  in  all  Johannesburg — " 

The  prosperous  gentlemen  who  sat  at  ease  about  the 
table  were  listening  like  children  to  a  tale.  Circumstances 


The  Rolling  Stone 309 

had  railed  them  off  from  the  herd,  from  contact  with  the 
harsh  surface  of  life.  Harry,  outcast,  scallawag,  who 
had  done  dubious  things  and  known  dubious  people,  was 
like  the  troubadour  paying  for  bed  and  supper  with  a 
song  of  fascinating  adventure.  They  asked  him  ques- 
tions, seeing  the  Boer  War  through  the  eyes  of  a  private, 
listening  to  stories  of  Devlin,  of  cattle-duffing,  of  Johan- 
nesburg in  war  and  peace. 

On  the  way  home  the  greatest  among  them  said  that 
Richard  King  was  a  good  fellow,  a  thoroughly  decent 
chap,  "  but  that  brother  of  his,  if  he  were  given  a  chance 
he  might  do  something." 

When  Richard  brought  Harry's  qualifications  under 
the  notice  of  those  who  were  making  the  new  Egypt  he 
found  no  difficulty  in  getting  him  a  job.  He  knew  himself 
to  be  a  popular  man ;  and,  of  course  it  was  that.  They 
were  glad  to  oblige  him  by  finding  his  brother  work. 

"  They've  given  you  the  Port  Sudan  job,  Henry.  It 
will  be  a  fine  thing  for  you,  getting  in  here.  Egypt  is 
going  ahead." 

Harry's  slanting  eyes  considered  him.  "  I  can  do  with 
little  old  Egypt  for  a  bit,"  said  he,  "  but  I'm  not  your 
kind,  Dick.  I'm  not  here  for  keeps." 

Richard  looked  disappointed.  What  a  pity  Harry 
never  stuck  to  anything !  "  A  rolling  stone  — " 

"And  moss  is  money?"  Yes,  it  would  be  pleasant 
to  send  home  five  thousand  pounds  for  James  to  invest, 
teach  him  to  call  other  people  unsuccesssful,  still  — "  Fact 
is,  I  don't  really  want  it.  I  —  I  —  want  — " 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Oh,  just  to  knock  about."  He  was  aware  of  his  need 
as  a  wind  that  drove  him  before  it,  but  he  could  not  put 
it  into  words.  Life  was  disappointing;  he  filled  his  belly 
with  husks  and  they  were  not  satisfying.  Once,  long  ago, 


310        The  Rolling  Stone 

he  had  found  something  he  could  do,  something  that  had 
left  him  content.  They  had  called  it  degrading,  brutaliz- 
ing, and  he  had  let  them  turn  him  from  it ;  but,  ever  since, 
he  had  been  searching,  searching  — 

Richard  would  not  understand. 

At  Port  Sudan  he  put  up  a  crane,  and  the  attendant 
difficulties  kept  him  interested  until  they  had  been  solved. 
The  crane  was  one  of  his  finest  pieces  of  engineering  work. 
In  token  of  approval  the  Government  gave  him  other  jobs. 
He  built  barracks  for  them  and  then  a  wharf,  and  finally 
was  sent  to  Khartoum  to  inaugurate  a  water-supply. 

"  You  are  safe  now  for  a  clear  £800  a  year,"  said 
Richard. 

"  Never  monkeyed  with  waterworks  before,"  said 
Harry ;  "  it  will  be  an  experience." 

"  A  little  influence  is  a  useful  thing." 

"  You  and  your  influence !  They  saw  me  put  up  that 
crane." 

Richard  heard  no  more  of  Harry  for  some  time.  He 
could  congratulate  himself  on  having  steered  the  rolling 
stone  into  a  good  berth.  When  writing  home  he  said  that 
Harry  appeared  to  have  settled  down,  and  Mr.  King, 
who  since  his  son  had  come  unscathed  through  the  Boer 
War,  regarded  him  as  "  spared,"  wondered  if  it  could  be 
true.  Had  Harry's  hour  struck?  had  he  settled  down 
like  Richard,  like  James?  An  answer  to  prayer;  and 
he,  the  boy's  father,  would  be  —  yes,  of  course  he  would  be 
—  glad. 

He  need  not  have  feared.  One  morning,  when  Richard 
reached  the  office  he  found  Harry  in  possession. 

"  Finished,"  said  he. 

"  Well  —  but  they've  appointed  you  the  engineer  in 
charge  of  the  waterworks." 

"  Soft  job;  any  old  Mary  Ann  could  run  it  now." 


The  Rolling  Stone  311 

"  You're  not  going  to  jack  it  up?  " 

"  Done  it !  " 

Richard  sat  back  in  dismay.     "  What  next?  " 

"  I've  a  fancy  for  the  goldfields,  then  I  might  go  on  to 
New  Zealand." 

"  You're  hopeless." 

"  Send  you  the  first  nugget  I  find." 

"  When  are  you  sailing?  " 

"  Tomorrow,  on  the  Bremen.  If  you  know  anybody 
out  there,  you  might  give  me  an  introduction." 

"  All  right.     You  will  stay  the  night  with  us  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  old  man,  but  I  won't.  Ethel  had  enough  of 
me  last  time.  I've  lived  rough  and  I  don't  take  kindly 
to  dressing  for  dinner  and  that.  Besides,  I  want  to  see 
Cairo  —  the  Cairo  you've  never  seen.  Get  a  batch  of 
introductions  ready  and  I'll  call  for  them  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

Richard  hesitated.  He  would  have  liked  to  cut  official- 
dom and  make  a  night  of  it,  and  Harry,  seeing  his  hesita- 
tion, grinned.  "  Not  all  beer  and  skittles  being  a  respec- 
table member  of  society.  Eh,  what?  Lordy,  I'm  glad 
I'm  a  tough." 

"  You  wait,"  said  Richard. 


Chapter  XVII 


SO  bright  was  the  sunshine  that  Harry  King,  fol- 
lowing his  host  from  the  garden  into  the  shadowy 
drawing-room,  found  it  difficult  to  distinguish  the 
forms    and    faces    of    those    sitting    there.     He    walked 
blindly  in  the  wake  of  Philip  Madden  until  he  found  that 
he  had  been  led  up  to  a  black-and-gold  sofa  on  which  lay 
Philip  Madden's  invalid  wife. 

The  gloom  of  the  long  room  was  changing  to  twilight, 
a  clear  dark  twilight,  and  in  it,  softly  yet  sufficiently 
defined,  were  the  figures  of  other  women.  He  heard  Mrs. 
Madden's  "  Mr.  King  —  Miss  Holden,  Miss  Kitty 
Gray." 

The  girls  were  pouring  out  tea.  If  he  did  not  help 
them  they  would  think  him  a  lout,  yet  he  felt  awkward. 
The  woman  on  the  sofa,  the  woman  with  the  bright  eyes 
in  a  dead  face,  was  looking  at  him  thoughtfully ;  her  look 
was  piercing,  and  something  in  him  shrank. 

The  room  and  the  people  affected  him  strangely,  made 
him  feel  out  of  things  and  young. 

He  wasn't  young  now,  he  was  over  thirty.  Perhaps  he 
felt  out  of  things  because  he  had  just  come  from  the 
Australian  gold-fields,  from  the  rough  open  life. 

He  went  across  to  the  girls.  Kitty  Gray  was  in  nurse's 
uniform.  She  turned  laughing  eyes  on  him,  welcoming1 
his  help.  A  nice  little  thing  and  pretty.  He  felt  in- 
stantly at  home  with  her. 

"  I  hope  you  play  tennis,  Mr.  King?  " 

312 


The  Rolling  Stone  313 

"  I  do,  but  I  haven't  either  racquet  or  shoes  with  me." 

"  I  think  we  can  supply  them.  Margaret  and  I  were 
just  wishing  some  one  would  drop  in  to  make  up  a  set." 

Miss  Holden's  name,  then,  was  Margaret.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  been  aware  of  her  as  soon  as  he  entered 
the  room.  He  ventured  now  to  turn  from  Kitty,  to  turn 
as  if  for  corroboration  to  the  tall  girl  with  the  sweep 
of  heavy  dark  hair. 

"  Singles  are  tiring,"  she  said  in  a  deep  voice. 

He  carried  a  cup  of  tea  across  the  room  to  Mrs.  Mad- 
den. What  strange  cups  —  black !  Now  he  came  to 
think  of  it,  the  room  was  strange ;  the  grey  walls  were  the 
colour  of  mist  and  the  furniture  was  black  and  gold  —  a 
very  odd  sort  of  drawing-room.  He  preferred  something 
warmer  and  more  like  what  other  people  had. 

Mrs.  Madden  detained  him  for  a  little,  talking  of  his 
journey,  of  Sidney  — 

"  Darling  harbour !  "  said  Harry. 

She  inquired  after  the  Richard  Kings,  after  Ethel's 
people.  Was  the  old  Archdeacon  still  alive?  And  Harry 
himself,  what  had  brought  him  to  New  Zealand? 

"  I'm  an  engineer,  but  I  prefer  pioneer  work  to  any 
other."  He  told  her  of  the  crane  at  Port  Sudan,  and 
always,  as  she  listened,  he  was  conscious  of  her  thoughtful 
gaze. 

"  Mr.  Madden  will  know  what  is  being  done  here.  Are 
you  in  a  hurry  to  start  work?  " 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Christchurch  is  a  pleasant,  hospitable  sort  of 
place  — " 

"  It  seems  so.  Mr.  Madden  has  already  put  me  up 
for  the  club." 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  up  and  see  me  as  often  as  you 
can.  I  am  always  here."  She  indicated  the  sofa,  angling 


314  The  Rolling  Stone 

for  the  young  man's  pity.  She  had  seen  him  look  at 
Kitty,  turn  from  Kitty  to  Margaret.  It  was  a  chance. 

"I  suppose  you  are  going  to  play  tennis  now?  Well, 
I  won't  keep  you,  but  you  must  stay  to  dinner." 

From  her  sofa  she  could  see  the  court.  She  looked 
down  the  long  black-and-gold  room  with  its  walls  of  mist, 
looked  out  of  wide  French  windows  that  opened  on  a  tiled 
veranda.  Opposite  was  the  Holdens'  house,  and  the  ten- 
nis-court lay  between.  Many  a  bitter  afternoon  had  Mrs. 
Madden  spent  watching  Margaret  play  singles  with  her 
husband  —  with  Philip  ! 

If  the  stranger  from  overseas  should  take  a  fancy  to 
Margaret  — 

He  played  well  with  a  hard  serve,  a  serve  it  was  dif- 
ficult to  return,  and  he  was  amazingly  quick  on  his  feet. 

Margaret  could  not  but  be  impressed. 

Mrs.  Madden  would  give  him  opportunities.  He  looked 
an  unusual  sort  of  young  man.  He  wasn't  handsome, 
she  doubted  his  being  particularly  clever,  but  he  had 
fine  shoulders,  shoulders,  disproportionate  to  his  height. 
A  woman  would  admire  those  shoulders !  Rosa  Madden 
saw  them  as  an  indication  of  strength;  and  that  evening 
at  supper  she  turned  the  talk  on  narrow  escapes,  tight 
corners,  sudden  death. 

"  It  is  curious  how  careless  people  are,"  said  Harry. 
"  I  remember  an  instance  when  I  was  at  the  mines  in 
South  Africa.  It  was  against  the  rules  for  any  one  to 
sit  on  the  trolly-lines,  yet  men  did  it.  One  day  the 
loaded  trolley  had  just  been  dragged  up  the  incline,  and 
a  big  Cornishman,  named  Tredegar,  sat  himself  down  just 
there,  and  began  to  fill  his  pipe.  The  chain  of  the  trolly 
must  have  been  flawed ;  anyway,  it  broke  and  the  released 
trolly  came  roaring  back." 

"  And  the  man  sitting  there?  "  breathed  Kitty. 


The  Rolling  Stone  315 

"  They  took  what  was  left  of  him  up  in  a  sack." 

"Oh!"  screamed  Kitty,  putting  her  hands  over  her 
ears.  "  How  terrible !  " 

"  It  was  a  quick  death,"  said  Margaret  slowly,  and 
she  thought  that  though  such  a  death  sounded  terrible, 
it  was  not.  One  moment  and  you  were  fighting  your 
losing  battle,  the  battle  that  was  so  exhausting;  the  next, 
and  the  gnawing  pain  in  your  heart  was  gone,  extinguished. 
Her  eyes  dwelt  on  Harry  with  an  unseeing  gaze.  What 
was  it  like  to  be  utterly,  everlastingly  at  peace?  She 
had  a  sensation  as  of  wings  bearing  her  up  —  not  her  own 
wings.  She  turned  her  eyes  from  Harry  to  Philip  Mad- 
den. No,  not  even  for  the  peace  of  God  — 

"  It  is  queer,"  murmured  Mrs.  Madden,  "  that  after 
seeing  a  thing  like  that  men  should  still  believe  in  a  special 
Providence,  should  still  think  there  is  a  God  who  can  in- 
terpose between  them  and  accident." 

Harry  looked  at  her  in  surprise;  he  did  not  see  the 
connexion.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  do.  Why  not?  " 

"  Simply  because  He  doesn't." 

"  You  mean  He  doesn't  always,"  said  Harry. 

"You  believe  in  a  God  who  has  favourites?" 

"  I  think  He  has  His  chosen." 

"  Oh,  you  are  like  my  brother !  The  poor  boy  was 
killed  during  the  Boer  War.  In  his  last  letter  he  said, 
*  My  escapes  have  been  hair's-breadth.  I  cannot  think 
but  that  they  are  due  to  One  Above  who  has  taken  me 
specially  under  His  protection.  No  doubt  I  am  being 
preserved  for  some  purpose  — '  The  man  who  shared  his 
tent  was  playing  with  a  revolver,  did  not  know  it  was 
loaded,  and  as  my  brother  wrote  those  words  it  went  off. 
Across  them  is  a  brown  smear — "  She  sighed,  for  she 
was  the  only  sister  of  five  brothers  and  the  five  were  dead. 
How  could  she  expect  more  happiness,  a  better  fate  than 


316 The  Rolling  Stone 

had  been  theirs  ?  "  Ah,  Mr.  King,  we  none  of  us  like  to 
believe  that  we  are  subject  to  immutable  law." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Harry.  "  I've  evidence  to 
the  contrary." 

"  Evidence  ?     Oh,  come  now  (  " 

"  Anyway,  whether  or  not  it  is  what  you  would  call 
evidence,  it  is  good  enough  for  me." 

He  had  volunteered  for  every  foolhardy  expedition, 
gone  on  every  forlorn  hope  during  the  Boer  War.  But 
she  would  say  that  his  escapes  had  been  due  to  chance! 
There  was  also  his  remarkable  cure  —  he  could  hardly 
speak  to  her  of  that.  Yet  surely  that  was  convincing? 
Later,  when  he  was  in  the  billiard-room  with  his  host, 
he  mentioned  it. 

"  Why,  good  heavens,  man,"  said  Madden,  "  such  cures 
are  as  plentiful  as  flowers  in  spring!  Look  at  White,  the 
man  I  introduced  you  to  at  the  club;  he's  an  instance 
in  point.  He's  as  sound  as  a  roach  now  and  the  father 
of  half  a  dozen  kids,  and  he's  only  one  of  many.  If  that 
gammey  heart  of  yours  had  got  right,  though,  you  would 
have  had  something  to  make  a  song  about." 

This,  though  disconcerting,  did  not  alter  Harry's  con- 
viction. How  could  it  when  he  had  walked  with  God? 


II 

When  he  left  the  Maddens'  house  it  was  as  an  escort  to 
the  girls.  He  was  sorry  Margaret  Holden  had  such  a 
little  way  to  go ;  she  had  appeared  willing  to  listen  when 
he  talked  and  he  wanted  to  go  on  talking.  If  he  had  had 
any  encouragement  he  would  have  lingered,  pouring  out 
words,  have  kept  Margaret  at  her  gate  and  Kitty  waiting. 

But  Margaret,  smiling  at  him  faintly,  held  out  her 
hand.  "  I  seem  to  have  been  born  tired,"  she  said,  "  and 


The  Rolling  Stone  317 

tonight  I'm  worse  than  usual.     There's  nothing  for  it  but 
bed.     Good  night,  Mr.  King." 

"  I  shall  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  You  want  to  tell  me  more  about  preferential  tariffs 
for  the  Empire  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  make  you  see  what  the  Empire  means." 

"  Do  you?  Well,  good  night  now.  Good  night, 
Kitty." 

She  went  slowly  up  the  drive. 

Harry  walked  on  with  the  little  nurse.  "  Who  are 
the  Holdens  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Holden  made  a  fortune  in  Canterbury  lamb.  He  is 
a  widower  and  Margaret  is  his  only  child.  Very  pretty, 
isn't  she?  " 

"  Pretty?     Hardly."     Pretty  wasn't  the  right  word. 

"  Not  your  style?     Dear  me,  and  I  thought  she  was." 

Not  far  to  Kitty's  lodgings.  "  Won't  you  come  in 
and  have  a  drink  ?  I  do  as  I  like  here ;  and  there's  always 
whisky  and  soda  going  for  my  friends." 

"  Afraid  I  must  get  back." 

"  Well  —  another  time.  You  know,  I  was  awfully  in- 
terested in  what  you  said  —  about  the  Empire  and  that. 
I've  never  met  any  one  before  who  could  explain  it  to 
me ;  I  dare  say  I'm  stupid  — " 

"  We'll  have  lots  of  talks."  He  shook  her  hand  so 
heartily  that  she  cried  out  with  the  pain. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  but  I  do  like  a  man  to  be  strong." 


Ill 

Harry  at  the  club  was  writing  letters  home;  but  the 
ink  used  for  "  Dear  mother  "  was  long  since  dry  and  he 
had  added  nothing  further.  His  thoughts,  indeed,  were 
with  Margaret  Holden,  with  the  black  swathe  of  hair 


318  The  Rolling  Stone 

folded  smoothly  across  Margaret's  brow,  with  the  dark 
eyes  that  so  often  rested  on  him  without  seeing  him. 

To  him  entered  Madden  with  an  offer  of  work.  "  A 
well-paid  job! " 

"Constructive?" 

"  They  are  making  a  tunnel  over  at  Orea,  and  up  to 
now  have  been  using  hand-labour  —  rock-drills,  you  know. 
But  they  are  not  making  much  headway.  They  want  a 
man  to  take  down  machinery  and  set  it  up." 

"  I  could  do  that.     When  should  I  be  wanted?  " 

"  As  soon  as  you  could  go." 

"  I  like  this  place,"  said  Harry ;  "  I  don't  know  that 
I'm  in  any  hurry." 

Madden  moved  as  if  he  found  the  deep  leathern  chair 
of  the  club  uncomfortable.  "  Like  more  than  the  place, 
perhaps?  "  he  said,  and  did  his  best  to  smile. 

Harry  laid  down  his  pen.  "  That  is  so,"  he  said  at 
last.  "Do  you  think  —  do  you  think  I've  a  chance?" 

"A  chance  with  Holden,  do  you  mean?  " 

"Well,  I  didn't  — but— " 

"  Depends  on  what  you  have  to  offer."  If  only  he 
could  have  knocked  the  silly  smile  off  Harry's  face! 

"  To  offer?  "  The  other  was  taken  aback.  "  I've  got 
my  hands  and  my  head.  I  can  earn  enough  to  support  a 
wife.  What  more  does  he  want?" 

"  It  wouldn't  be  much  use  going  to  Old  Joe  unless  you 
could  show  him  you  had  an  established  position." 

Harry  had  not  intended  to  go  to  Old  Joe.  "  I  was 
drawing  £800  a  year  in  Egypt." 

"  You  were  —  yes."  Why  the  devil  hadn't  the  fellow 
stopped  in  Egypt? 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  unsuspecting  Harry,  "  that  I  shall 
soon  be  in  an  equally  good  position  here." 

"  Oh  —  will  be."     He  forced  a  grin.     Harry  was  a  free 


The  Rolling  Stone  319 

man ;  he  could  go  ahead  with  his  work  —  ay,  and  with 
his  wooing.  Madden  lifted  his  hand  from  the  arm  of  the 
chair  and  let  it  fall  again ;  it  felt  weighed  down,  loaded 
with  invisible  shackles,  loaded  so  heavily  that  it  was  use- 
less. 

"  You  mean  that  I've  got  to  show  them  ?  "  The  idea 
of  a  task,  of  something  tangible,  pleased  him.  When  it 
came  to  deeds  he  was  the  man.  "  Very  well,  then,  it's 
me  for  Orea,  and  I'll  work  like  a  navvy."  He  turned  an 
awakened  face  on  the  man  lying  back  wearily  in  the 
deep  chair.  "  Isn't  she  a  topper,  Madden?  You  think  — 
you  think  I've  got  a  chance?  " 

"  Has  she  ever  led  you  to  suppose  — " 

The  prospect  of  a  job,  the  hope  of  returning  to  the 
strains  of  "  See,  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes,"  was  work- 
ing in  him  like  yeast  —  that  evening  he  wrote  in  the 
shiny  black  notebook  that  Madden  was  the  whitest  man 
he  had  ever  known ! 

"  Ah!  "  said  he  jovially,  "  wouldn't  you  like  to  know?  " 
He  got  up  from  the  writing-table.  "  Let's  go  and  have  a 
drink?  " 

Madden  excused  himself.  A  little  more  of  Harry's 
society  and  the  feelings  he  was  controlling  with  so  much 
difficulty  must  break  loose. 

"Business?  It's  always  business  with  you,  old  man." 
He  slapped  Madden  on  the  shoulder;  and  Madden  set  his 
teeth  and  bore  it.  "  Well  —  you  shall  dance  at  our 
wedding  — " 

IV 

Harry  when  he  reached  the  camp  at  Orea  found  himself 
the  representative  of  a  new  order.  Machinery  was  to 
take  the  place  of  hand  labour  and  Harry  was  to  erect  it. 
For  some  time  after  his  arrival  the  entries  in  the  shiny 


320 The  Rolling  Stone 

black  notebook  were  entirely  concerned  with  his   work. 

"  Went  up  Fellbrigg  Creek  to  see  where  the  pipe-line 
is  coming  for  the  power.  790  feet." 

"  Working  at  crane  —  fine." 

"  Rails  and  timber-loading  —  fine." 

"  Got  up  high-pressure  side  compressor  and  bed-plate. 
Three  horses  up  incline." 

"  Fixed  compressors  on  their  beds  with  bolts  and 
dowel-pins." 

"  Drills  started  on  the  tunnel-face :  satisfactory." 

The  foreman  of  the  hand-labour  contingent,  Dan  Dillon, 
was  notorious  for  having  bossed  every  camp  in  which 
he  had  worked.  Tales  of  his  brutality  hung,  like  a  warn- 
ing, in  the  atmosphere,  and  where  he  was  concerned  men 
walked  delicately.  This  man  perceived  that  the  ma- 
chinery which  Harry  had  brought  would  supersede  him. 
He  brooded  over  the  state  of  affairs,  and  the  anger  in 
him,  the  anger  that  was  always  smouldering,  began  to 
flame.  It  was  not  directed  against  the  masters,  however, 
nor  against  the  iron  and  steel,  but  against  the  men, 
traitors  to  their  class,  who  were  helping  Harry  to  bring 
power  down  the  mountain-side  and  substitute  machinery 
for  hand  labour;  in  particular  it  was  directed  against 
Archie  McClean,  a  mechanic  who  had  come  to  Orea  Camp 
with  the  new  boss. 

One  Sunday  in  August,  a  bitterly  cold  day  of  rain  and 
wind  which  towards  afternoon  had  ended  in  a  snowfall, 
Harry  was  in  his  shack  on  the  hill-side.  He  had  been 
engaged  fixing  up  a  fireplace,  and  was  surveying  it  with 
the  approval  of  a  man  who  knows  how  great  have  been 
the  difficulties  he  has  had  to  surmount,  when  the  sound 
of  a  commotion  in  the  camp  reached  his  ears. 

He  went  to  the  door.  The  snow  had  ceased,  but  a  wind, 
a  piercingly  cold  wind,  was  blowing.  Harry  did  not  like 


The  Rolling  Stone  321 

the  cold,  was  not  enjoying  a  winter  in  the  mountains  — 
wished,  indeed,  he  were  back  in  Egypt.  The  wind  re- 
minded him  of  holes  in  the  hut-walls,  of  interstices  be- 
tween the  roughly  squared  tops.  He  meant  to  plug  them 
as  soon  as  he  could  spare  the  time.  After  all,  no  time  like 
the  present !  As  for  the  camp,  the  men  weren't  babies  — 

He  was  turning  back  into  the  room  when  he  caught 
sight  of  a  figure,  dark  against  the  snow.  It  was  that  of 
a  man,  and  the  man  was  running  towards  him  up  the 
track.  In  another  minute  a  small  foxy  fellow,  West  by 
name,  came  across  the  little  clearing. 

"  It's  Dillon  and  McClean,"  he  panted. 

Harry  reached  for  his  revolver.  "  Can't  you  fellows 
stop  them?  " 

"  The  men  are  afraid  of  Dillon." 

"Pah!     Afraid?" 

"  He's  looking  pretty  ugly." 

"  All  right ! "  With  West  at  his  heels,  he  ran  down 
the  hill-side.  In  the  camp  the  men  were  clustered  about 
a  small  open  space,  and  what  was  going  on  there  Harry, 
being  short,  could  not  see.  He  thrust  in  among  them, 
using  his  strength. 

Dillon  and  McClean?  As  far  as  make-up  was  con- 
cerned, he  did  not  think  them  unequally  matched.  The 
foreman  was  a  square  chunk  of  muscle,  but  the  Scot  was 
taller,  had  the  longer  reach.  Remained  the  spiritual 
factor,  the  fierce  will  behind  the  muscle. 

Harry  forced  his  way  to  the  front,  and  as  his  glance  fell 
on  the  men  he  saw  at  once  that  their  fighting  was  elemental 
and  without  science.  Neither  knew  how  to  box  and  their 
scrapping  consisted  of  fierce  attempts  to  damage  each 
other.  They  had,  indeed,  as  much  idea  of  clean  fighting 
as  a  mongrel  dog.  When  Harry  reached  the  edge  of  the 
crowd  they  were  rolling  over  on  the  ground.  McClean 


322  The  Rolling  Stone 

had  just  frustrated  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  Dillon  to 
gouge  out  his  eyes  and  Dillon  was  seeking  a  fresh  hold. 

"  He'll  do  him  a  mischief,"  cried  O'Farrell,  a  lean 
cornstalker  from  Sydney ;  and  before  Harry,  quick  as 
he  was,  could  interfere  the  mischief  was  done. 

"  Gaw  blimy  —  he's  bitten  him !  " 

Harry,  calling  for  volunteers  to  part  the  men,  flung 
himself  on  the  struggling  heap. 

For  the  next  few  minutes  he  was  far  too  busy  with  the 
leg  he  had  tackled  to  grasp  the  enormity  of  what  Dillon 
had  done.  The  cornstalker,  little  West  and  another,  were 
working  with  him ;  but  it  was  all  they  could  do,  each 
grappling  with  a  limb,  to  drag  Dillon  off  McClean.  The 
man  put  out  his  utmost  strength,  once  and  again  he  al- 
most broke  from  their  hold;  and  in  the  end,  before  they 
had  him  quiet,  there  were  two  men  hanging  to  each  limb. 
Even  then  the  madman  glowered  at  them,  furious  and 
unappeased. 

"  I'll  do  him  in  yet,"  he  shouted  as  they  carried  him 
into  a  shack.  "  It's  him  or  me  bites  the  dust." 

He  was  covered  with  blood  and  soil ;  and  blood,  not  his 
own,  was  on  his  lips.  "  Fetch  water,"  said  Harry. 

They  brought  it  in  a  kerosene  tin. 

Inadvertently  the  men  had  relaxed  their  grasp  of  Dillon. 
As  the  kerosene  tin  was  brought  in  he  sprang  up  and,  with 
one  mighty  kick,  sent  it  through  the  roof  of  the  shack. 
They  had  their  work  to  do  over  again.  The  icy  water 
had  been  scattered  over  them ;  it  ran  down  the  walls,  sank 
through  their  rough  clothes.  They  slipped  on  the  wet 
floor  as  they  wrestled  with  Dillon,  but  at  last  they  had  him 
helpless  and  apparently  resigned. 

"  Never  seen  him  in  such  a  bait,"  said  West,  as  Harry, 
after  locking  the  shack  on  Dillon,  turned  away.  "  He's 
got  the  devil's  own  temper.  He  meant  killing  McClean." 


The  Rolling  Stone 323 

"  He  must  learn  he  can't  do  as  he  likes  here,"  said 
Harry,  whose  mind  was  divided  between  pity  for  the  man 
who,  superseded,  had  blundered  in  his  wrath,  and  horror 
at  the  form  that  blundering  had  taken. 

At  the  moment  horror  was  uppermost,  for  Dillon  had 
bitten  a  lump  of  flesh  out  of  McClean's  shoulder. 

When  Harry  reached  the  injured  man's  shack  he  found 
that  others  versed  in  the  rough  surgery  of  the  wilds,  were 
already  bandaging  his  hurt.  McClean  had  been  bleeding 
freely  and  the  place  was  a  reeking  shambles.  As  Harry's 
shadow  fell  on  the  threshold  McClean  started  up  as  if  to 
rush  away.  Seeing  it  was  only  the  boss,  he  fell  back  on 
his  seat.  "  I  think  I'll  draw  my  pay,"  he  muttered. 
"  This  is  more  than  I  bargained  for.  I'll  chuck  the 
job." 

Harry  was,  however,  disinclined  to  lose  a  useful  me- 
chanic. "No,"  said  he,  "it's  Dillon  goes." 

But  Dillon's  ferocity  had  scared  the  man;  he  was 
frightened,  as  of  a  mad  dog.  "  It  was  him  or  me.  I 
suppose  you've  got  him  safe?  He  —  he  can't  get  out?" 

"  I  fancy  he's  had  about  enough  of  it,"  said  Harry 
reassuringly.  "  Anyway,  he's  under  lock  and  key." 

He  went  back  to  his  hut  and  resumed  work  on  the  log- 
walls.  Dillon  must  go  —  of  course  he  must.  A  foul  of 
the  worst  kind,  and,  anyway,  his  action  had  only  precip- 
itated matters.  He  and  his  kind  were  no  longer  needed 
at  Orea.  The  pity  of  it  that  such  strength  should  be  no 
longer  of  any  use,  that  cold,  dull  iron  should  have 
taken  its  place!  The  strength  Dillon  had  shown! 
Harry's  arms  ached.  He  could  not  remember  to  have  seen 
anything  like  it  before. 

He  was  stuffing  up  an  interstice  through  which  the  wind 
had  whistled  suggestively  since  first  the  logs  were  laid 
on  one  another,  when  echoes  of  another  disturbance 


824 The  Rolling  Stone 

reached  his  ears.  This  time  he  did  not  wait  to  be  fetched 
but,  revolver  in  hand,  tore  down  the  track.  If  Dillon 
should  have  broken  loose  — 

He  thought,  with  sudden  clearness,  of  the  kerosene  tin. 
The  shacks  were  crazy  buildings.  If  Dillon  had  set  his 
mind  on  getting  out  he  would  do  it.  Why  hadn't  he, 
Harry,  bound  him,  staked  him  out? 

And  McClean  was  hurt,  was  afraid.  He  wouldn't  put 
up  much  of  a  fight  —  the  poor  beggar  couldn't. 

Harry  was  heading  for  Dillon's  shack  when  he  saw  that 
the  door  was  off  its  hinges.  Fool  —  he  might  have 
known ! 

West  shouted  to  him  as  he  ran  past,  "  Dillon's  with 
McClean ! "  and  Harry  saw  that  a  crowd  had  gathered 
about  the  hut. 

The  door  was  shut. 

He  swore.  The  white-livered  skunks,  why  didn't  they 
burst  it  in?  They  were  afraid  of  Dillon.  Good  Lord  — 
afraid ! 

No  time  to  lose!  From  within  the  shack  rose  bestial 
shouts,  the  crash  of  tinware,  of  iron,  a  sudden  scream. 

With  a  kick  he  stove  in  the  door.  Dillon  had  got  his 
victim  down ;  he  was  throttling  the  life  out  of  him.  "  It's 
him  or  me  bites  the  dust,"  he  had  said. 

It  was  difficult  for  Harry,  in  the  medley  of  overturned 
furniture  and  torn  woodwork,  to  get  at  the  struggling 
men.  Slipping  his  revolver  into  his  pocket,  he  aimed  a 
blow  at  Dillon's  face,  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  caught 
him,  good  and  hard,  on  the  temple.  He  rolled  over 
stunned,  and  Harry  pulled  McClean  from  under  him. 
When,  a  few  minutes  later,  Dillon  came  to  himself  he 
was  covered  by  a  revolver. 

"  Don't  you  make  any  mistake :  you  move  and  I'll  shoot 
you." 


The  Rolling  Stone 325 

Dillon  looked  from  Harry  to  McClean,  gurgling  and 
sobbing  on  the  floor  in  slow  recovery.  He  was  still  dazed. 

"  How  was  it?  "  he  said  stupidly. 

"  I  hit  you." 

"You?" 

He  stared  at  the  boss,  met  the  impact  of  a  will  fiercer 
even  than  his,  and,  perforce,  accepted  the  situation.  He 
was  beaten,  the  boss  had  beaten  him. 

"Why  did  you  come  barging  in?  It  wasn't  your 
show." 

"  If  you'd  done  for  McClean  you'd  have  been  stretched." 

"What's  the  odds?" 

Sullen,  broken,  unresisting,  he  was  led  away.  Harry 
gave  orders  that  he  was  to  be  staked  out  in  his  shack  — 
a  thong  round  each  wrist  and  ankle  to  fasten  them  apart. 
He  would  be  safe  then  till  morning,  and  when  the  first 
working  day  of  the  week  should  break  over  the  snowy 
landscape  he  was  to  be  drummed  out  of  the  canrm. 

The  feelings  of  the  men  who  gathered  on  the  following 
morning  to  witness  the  passing  of  Dillon,  were  mixed. 
They  had  suffered  at  his  hands,  more  than  one  h«d  bpen 
savagely  ill-treated,  yet  they  were  vaguely  sorry  for  him. 
He  had  been  mighty  in  his  little  way  and  he  was  fallen. 
The  story  would  run  before  him.  Wherever  he  found 
work,  if  he  tried  the  old  bullying,  blustering  tactics,  it 
would  be,  "  'Ere,  don't  you  come  it  over  us !  We  know 
all  about  you.  Ever  'eard  of  Orea?  " 

For  Dillon  it  was  domino. 


Difficulties  with  springs  in  the  rock  face,  difficulties 
with  the  concrete,  with  the  foundation;  and  as  long  as 
Harry  had  difficulties  with  which  to  contend  he  was  happy. 


326 The  Rolling  Stone 

The  company  increased  his  salary  and  listened  to  his  ad- 
vice. They  hoped  he  would  stop  among  the  snow-capped 
mountains  until  their  tunnel  was  driven  through  into 
daylight.  They  could  not  ask  for  a  harder-working, 
more  resourceful  manager,  and  they  thanked  Madden  for 
recommending  him. 

"  A  really  good  man,"  said  White,  the  chairman  of 
directors,  "  is  difficult  to  get.  Now  King  doesn't  drink, 
he  works  like  a  nigger,  he  puts  his  brains  into  the  job, 
yet  he's,  how  old  —  thirty-four,  did  you  say?  Such  a 
man  ought  to  be  at  the  top  of  the  tree.  What's  his  vice?  " 

The  men  were  sitting  in  the  smoking-room  at  the  club. 

"  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,"  said  Madden,  "  he  can't 
stick  to  a  job.  He's  had  good  opportunities,  but  he's 
here  today  and  gone  tomorrow." 

The  fat  face  of  the  chairman  showed  anxiety.  "  I  hope 
he'll  stick  to  Orea." 

"  I  hope  he'll  stick  to  it,"  said  Madden  heartily,  "  till 
he  walks  out  the  other  side." 

"  He  has  just  asked  for  a  week's  leave  of  absence." 

"The  deuce!" 

"  Of  course,  it  was  granted.  Indeed,  as  we've  sur- 
mounted the  main  difficulties,  he  could  be  spared." 

"  Then,"  said  Madden,  "  you'll  be  lucky  if  you  get 
him  back."  He  swallowed  his  whisky  and  soda  at  a  gulp 
and  rose.  Harry  on  his  way  back  to  Christchurch  — 

Madden's  feet  were  noisy  on  the  parquet-flooring  as  he 
went  out,  and  White  looked  after  him,  surprised  at  his 
abruptness,  at  the  hasty,  almost  angry  way  in  which  he 
moved.  Madden  was  a  fine-looking  man,  but  as  a  friend 
unsatisfactory.  Well,  every  one  knew  he  didn't  get  on 
with  his  wife,  and  if  a  man  had  no  comfort  in  his 
home  — 

White  thought  complacently  of  the  right  little,  tight 


The  Rolling  Stone  327 

little  button-rose  who  was  the  mother  of  his  six  children. 
Poor  old  Madden! 


VI 

That  evening,  in  the  city  clothes  he  had  not  worn  for 
months,  Harry  King  walked  out  to  the  Maddens',  and 
every  house  he  passed  that  was  to  let  won  from  him  a 
glance,  a  thoughtful,  measuring  glance  as  of  one  who  says : 
"Is  it  large  enough?  Will  the  furniture  I  mean  to  buy 
look  well  in  it?  Will  She  think  it  the  right  sort  of  house 
or  would  She  prefer  something  different  —  larger,  smaller, 
more  stately,  cosier  —  what  ?  " 

As  he  entered  the  drawing-room  it  was  as  if  Orea  had 
never  been.  The  present  linked  itself  to  the  past  without 
a  break.  Mrs.  Madden,  in  a  crimson  gown  which  accen- 
tuated her  pallor,  was  lying  on  the  black-and-gold  sofa. 
Kitty  Gray,  who  had  just  returned  from  Wellington,  had 
come  up  to  gossip  about  her  last  case,  and  Margaret 
Holden's  tall  figure,  in  the  white  she  habitually  wore, 
was  at  the  piano.  She  was  playing  from  memorv,  and 
Madden  was  in  a  -long  chair  at  her  side.  He  had  insisted 
on  lighting  the  piano-candles  — 

As  Harry  came  through  the  hall  he  had  heard  the  music, 
and  had  guessed  the  player  to  be  Margaret.  He  was  in 
luck.  He  had  come  to  look  for  her,  to  say  "  Have  I  a 
chance?  "  and  she  was  here,  under  this  roof  which  shel- 
tered only  his  friends. 

"  You  back?  "  said  Madden,  and  the  surprise  and  pleas- 
ure of  the  others  covered  the  banality  of  his  welcome. 

Mrs.  Madden  raised  herself  on  the  pillows.  "  We  are 
all  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said  in  her  clear,  slow  voice. 
"  It  has  been  dull  here  while  you  have  been  away  —  stag- 
nant. I  expect  you  will  wake  us  up."  She  looked  about 


328  The  Rolling  Stone 

her,  at  the  faces  of  the  girls,  at  her  husband.  "  Sit 
down,  Mr.  King,  and  tell  us  what  you  have  been  doing." 

Below  his  preoccupation  with  Margaret  lay  the  fresh 
memory  of  the  fight  between  Dillon  and  McClean;  it  was 
near  enough  to  the  surface  for  Harry  to  clothe  it  with 
words.  He  gave  his  impression  of  it  —  the  savagery  and 
the  pity,  the  old  order  passing  — 

Even  Rosa  Madden  saw  the  rough  camp  among  the 
mountains,  saw  Harry  crashing  through  the  door  of  the 
shack,  running  in  on  the  would-be  murderer.  "  I  wonder 
you  dared." 

"  Oh,  that  was  all  right.  I  was  the  boss ;  it  was  my 
job." 

Kitty's  eyes  were  round.  "  And  you  had  to  be  so 
quick  — 

"  Rather !     McClean  was  black  in  the  face." 

"  Oh !  "     She  shrank  from  the  crude  detail. 

"  Strange,"  said  Mr.  Madden,  "  that  Dillon  should  have 
been  afraid  of  the  revolver." 

"  I  don't  think  he  was.  I  think  it  was  just  a  sort  of 
last  straw.  He  had  made  his  bid  and  lost.  He'd  cocked 
it  over  the  other  men  all  his  life  and  in  machinery  he'd 
found  something  stronger  than  himself.  He  was  broken, 
done  for." 

"  Something  stronger  than  himself,"  repeated  Madden, 
"  and  that  breaks  a  man,  yes." 

VII 

When  the  little  gathering  said  good  night  Mrs.  Madden 
laid  a  hand  on  Kitty's  arm :  "  Just  a  minute." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  be  going." 

"  Mr.  King  wants  to  speak  to  Margaret.  Give  them 
time  to  get  ahead." 


The  Rolling  Stone  329 

"  She  doesn't  care  for  him." 

"You  think  the  caring  is  all  on  his  side?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know."  She  figured  an  etui  lying  on 
the  table  at  the  head  of  Mrs.  Madden's  couch,  fingered  it 
so  roughly  that  the  clasp  gave  and  the  mother-of-pearl 
contents  were  scattered  over  the  carpet.  Mrs.  Madden 
watched  her  collecting  them.  "  And  the  gold  thimble, 
Kitty?  It  must  have  rolled  under  the  sofa." 

Kitty  had  them  all  at  last,  every  little  gleaming  imple- 
ment. She  shut  them  hurriedly  into  the  green-and-silver 
box  and  made  her  escape.  In  Mrs.  Madden's  eyes  as  she 
watched  the  slight  figure  pass  rapidly  across  the  lawn, 
was  contemptuous  understanding.  "  She,  at  least,  has 
changed  her  note." 

She  lay  back  among  pillows  stiff  with  gold.  They 
were  no  more  easy  to  her  than  her  life ;  but  they  were,  she 
thought,  beautiful.  When  the  tinsel  of  them  grew 
tarnished  she  would  throw  them  away,  buy  others.  She 
would  have  what  she  wanted  — 

What  she  wanted? 

Harry,  walking  with  Margaret  Holden  to  her  gate,  was 
fiercely  conscious  that  each  step  was  the  passing  of  op- 
portunity. He  must  speak  to  her ;  his  heart  was  bursting 
with  what  he  had  to  say,  it  was  throwing  itself  about  in 
his  chest  so  that  he  was  nearly  choked,  and  yet  he  could 
not  find  words.  "  You  know,"  he  said  at  last,  "  you  know 
why  I  went  to  Orea?  " 

Margaret  stirred  in  her  dream.  "  It  was  a  good  open- 
ing, I  suppose." 

"  I  wanted  you  to  realize,"  said  Harry,  "  that  I  was  a 
man  who  could  do  things." 

She  had  hardly  been  aware  of  him.  Outside  the  drama 
of  her  life  a  few  dim  figures  moved,  and  Harry's  had  been 
one  of  them.  She  had  seen  him,  vaguely,  as  a  friend's 


330  The  Rolling  Stone 

friend ;  had  not  bestowed  on  him  more  than  a  moment's 
thought.  That  he  should  have  been  thinking  of  her  was 
startling,  it  was  also  disquieting. 

"  I  did  not  doubt  it,"  she  said  coldly. 

"  You  know  I  went  because  of  you !  " 

They  had  reached  her  gate.  She  stepped  inside  and 
turned,  a  tall  figure,  black  and  white  under  the  brilliant 
moon. 

"  I?  "  she  said,  as  if  he  had  accused  her  of  something 
discreditable.  "  How  was  I  to  know?  " 

"  I  thought  my  going  would  speak  for  me." 

"  Dear  Mr.  King,  I  never  dreamed  it  had  anything  to 
do  with  me." 

She  hoped  that  was  conclusive,  but  Harry  could  not 
believe  what  had  been  so  patent  to  others  had  been  hidden 
from  her. 

"  Why  did  you  think  I  went  to  the  Maddens'?  " 

"  I  didn't  think." 

"  I  went  to  meet  you." 

She  moved  impatiently.  It  irked  her  that  a  man's 
thoughts  —  even  his  thoughts  —  should  have  come  about 
her,  come  near. 

"  And  Madden  knew.     He  encouraged  me  — " 

"Mr.  Madden?" 

"  He  got  me  the  job  at  Orea.  He  told  me  I  hadn't  a 
chance  unless  I  proved  to  you  I  wasn't  a  waster." 

"He  sent  you  to  Orea?"  He  detected  a  hint  of 
laughter,  of  feminine  exultation,  and  imagined  she  was 
at  last  beginning  to  realize  what  he  had  done. 

"  I  worked  there  like  a  dock-labourer,"  he  said  earn- 
estly. "  I  want  to  spend  my  life  working  for  you." 

A  shadow  like  a  grey  moth  flitted  by ;  it  hesitated  pre- 
ceptibly,  but  neither  saw  it  and  it  flitted  on  down  the 
road. 


The  Rolling  Stone  331 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Margaret  in  a  troubled  voice,  "  no." 

"  I'm  rough  compared  to  you.  I  left  school  early ; 
I  have  not  bothered  much  with  books.  But,"  he  paused 
and  his  voice  sank  to  soundlessness,  "  well,  I'd  do  anything 
on  earth  for  you  — " 

"  Don't  — "  said  Margaret. 

"  You've  only  to  say." 

"  Mr.  King,  I'm  sorry,  more  sorry  than  I  can  tell  you, 
but  it's  no  use." 

He  began  to  plead,  urging  on  her  the  proof  of  devotion 
that  he  had  given,  begging  her  to  think  it  over,  to  let 
him  have  a  chance.  Why  shouldn't  she?  What  more 
could  he  do  or  offer? 

"  Oh,  stop  — "  she  said,  lifting  a  hand  as  if  to  stay  the 
flow  of  words.  "  Mr.  King,  be  sensible." 

"  Sensible?  "  said  Harry. 

"  A  woman  knows  whether  any  particular  man  attracts 
her ;  and  if  he  doesn't,  she  says  '  No  ' —  at  least,  she  does 
if  she's  honest." 

"  It  might  come." 

"  Come?  "  she  said  derisively,  and  touched  the  back  of 
his  hand  with  a  finger-tip.  "  If  I  could  care  for  you,  that 
would  have  sent  a  quiver  of  fire  up  my  arm ;  it  doesn't." 

How  did  she  know?  "There  is  some  one  else,"  he 
said. 

She  looked  at  him  sadly.  "  It's  growing  late,  Mr. 
King."  The  old  unseeing  look  had  come  back  to  her 
eyes  ;  do  what  he  might  he  could  not  banish  it.  For  her  he 
hardly  existed.  "  Good  night." 

Kitty's  lodgings  were  in  a  corner  house.  As  Harry 
came  swinging  by  he  caught  sight  of  a  little  figure  at  the 
gate,  and  guessed  that  she  was  waiting  for  him.  His 
heart  turned  to  her  in  gratitude.  She  would  know  that 
Margaret  had  turned  him  down. 


332  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  It's  early  yet,"  he  said.  "  Come  out  to  supper  with 
me." 

The  thought  of  his  dark  and  silent  room  at  the  hotel 
was  unendurable.  He  would  get  Kitty  to  sit  with  him 
as  long  as  possible.  Affection  is  comforting  when  you 
are  down  on  your  luck. 

As  they  went  through  the  streets  she  slipped  her  hand 
under  his  arm,  and  he,  who  was  as  finicky  with  regard 
to  touch  as  a  woman,  responded  gratefully.  She  stood 
between  him  and  the  realization  that  he  had  lost  Mar- 
garet. 

At  the  "  Black  Cat "  they  had  a  choice  of  tables,  and 
decided  on  one  at  the  end  of  the  long  room.  Kitty  had 
looked  round  a  little  anxiously.  She  sat  opposite  to 
Harry,  and  in  a  glass  behind  him  kept  watch  on  the 
door  —  no  one  here  that  she  knew,  no  one  as  yet. 

Ordering  a  light  wine,  he  drank  "  to  your  bright  eyes," 
and  Kitty  dimpled.  From  under  her  nurse's  cap  tendrils 
of  glistening  hair,  breaking  in  little  curls,  made  her  look 
younger  than  she  was.  The  sight  of  Harry,  released 
from  thraldom,  gave  her  a  little  excited  feeling.  Here  was 
the  man  that  she  would  like  to  catch  — 

"I'm  going  to  chuck  my  job  with  the  Orea  Tunnel 
Company.  Don't  know  whether  I'm  wise  or  not  and  don't 
care.  Sick  of  the  whole  business." 

"What  shall  you  do?" 

"  Go  on  a  tour  round  the  islands.  Must  be  something 
in  the  country  worth  seeing." 

He  was  going  away,  going  in  reckless  mood;  he  might 
never  return.  Kitty's  heart  began  to  beat  quickly.  "  Oh, 
Harry,"  she  breathed,  and  in  her  anxiety  leaned  towards 
him  across  the  table,  "  take  me  with  you !  " 

The  offer  was  to  the  poor  fellow  like  moonrise  on  a 


The  Rolling  Stone 333 

dark  night;  it  could  not  turn  the  night  into  day  but  it 
might  prevent  him  losing  his  way.  He  looked  at  her 
kindly.  "  I  wish  I  could." 

"  I'd  love  to  go.     Oh,  Harry,  I  would  like  it  so  much." 

The  meaning  of  her  offer  had  hardly  reached  him.  She 
wanted  to  be  good  to  him,  to  comfort  him  in  his  trouble. 
He  met  her  eyes,  and  there  was  that  in  Kitty's  face,  on 
her  parted  lips,  that  brought  him  a  fuller  knowledge. 
"  But  — "  he  said,  for  he  was  no  betrayer  of  innocence. 

She  twisted  her  wine-glass  about,  making  the  yellow 
lights  shift  in  the  wine,  watching  them.  "  It  —  it 
wouldn't  be  the  first  time,"  she  murmured. 

He  was  still  dubious.     "  I  like  a  square  deal." 

"  Yes  —  yes,"  she  said,  "  it  would  be  all  right,  really." 
She  was  at  her  ease  again,  only  eager  to  carry  her  point. 

"  Well,  then  —  perhaps." 

"  Oh,  Harry,"  she  clapped  her  little  hands,  "  how  jolly 
it  will  be ! "  And  she  smiled  at  him,  happy  as  a  child. 

"  How  will  you  manage?  " 

"  That's  easy.  I  have  an  offer  of  a  case  at  Orunga. 
I'll  wire  it  off." 

"  People  will  know." 

"  Stupid !  "  She  pouted  at  him.  "  I  shall  tell  every 
one  that  I've  gone  to  it." 

Evident  she  could  take  care  of  herself.  "  I  shall  pull 
out  on  the  ten  o'clock  train  tomorrow,"  he  said. 

"  I'll  be  there.  We  won't  start  together,  we'll  meet  — 
down  the  line." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  smiling  over  her  simple  ruses,  feeling 
that  it  was  dear  and  sweet  of  her  to  be  willing  to  come 
with  him,  for  though  Margaret  had  turned  him  down, 
it  was  still  Margaret ! 

No  question  of  anything  serious  between  him  and  Kitty ; 


334 The  Rolling  Stone 

but  he  liked  a  girl  who  was  not  always  on  the  make,  who 
wanted  to  give.  What  would  Kitty  get  out  of  their  fort- 
night together?  As  far  as  he  could  see  —  nothing. 


VIII 

In  her  eyrie  at  the  corner  house,  an  eyrie  with  look- 
outs along  the  crossing  roads,  Kitty  sat  before  her  dress- 
ing-table. She  had  said  good  night  to  Harry  and  come 
up  to  bed;  but  she  was  too  excited  to  be  sleepy.  More- 
over, she  had  a  letter  to  write. 

It  was  a  warm  evening,  and,  with  her  nightgown  open 
at  the  throat,  she  sat  at  her  dressing-table.  The  lace 
cover  was  cumbered  with  silver  pots,  pots  she  kept 
meticulously  clean  and  which  she  thought  showed  what 
a  refined  and  artistic  person  she  was.  That  night,  how- 
ever, the  pots  had  been  pushed  aside  to  make  room  for 
her  writing-case.  It  was  a  fat  writing-case,  it  bulged 
with  letters,  and  it  went  with  Kitty  on  all  her  journeyings. 
She  opened  it  and  searched  among  its  contents  for  one 
particular  letter. 

Before  she  went  off  for  her  fortnight  with  Harry  she 
meant  to  make  sure  of  the  future.  That  fortnight  would 
imperil  what  she  valued  most  in  the  world,  but  she  was 
going  to  insure  herself  against  disaster.  Harry  was  not 
to  be  trusted :  he  would  accept  what  you  offered,  he  would 
not  give  anything  in  return. 

But  he  was  adorable. 

That  fierceness  and  the  strength  of  him!  A  shiver  of 
anticipatory  delight  ran  through  her  limbs.  She  was 
conscious  of  a  sweet  hot  stir  —  whatever  it  cost  she  must 

go- 
She  found  the  letter;  it  was  from  Ernest  Franks,  the 

accountant,  and  it  asked  her  to  marry  him.     Franks  was 


The  Rolling  Stone 335 

a  fair,  dapper  man  with  very  thin  legs.  She  had  refused 
him  twice,  had  refused  him  on  account  of  those  thin  legs. 
What  else  could  he  expect? 

"  DEAR  ERNEST, —  Just  off  to  a  case  at  Orunga,  but  I 
don't  expect  to  be  away  more  than  a  fortnight.  Perhaps 
when  I  get  back  I  may  have  something  to  tell  you  that 
you  will  like  to  hear. 

"  Your  flighty  but  affectionate  little 

"  KITTY." 

IX 

The  evening  of  the  first  day  found  the  travellers  in  a 
fairyland  of  lakes  and  mountains.  They  had  decided  to 
stop  when  and  where  the  humour  took  them.  The  sight 
of  a  white  hostelry,  reflected  in  still  waters  —  waters 
which  under  the  sunset  sky  flamed  and  shone  —  caught 
their  fancy. 

"What  do  you  say  to  this?"  asked  Harry;  and  his 
companion,  weary  of  the  train,  agreed. 

A  broad  road  ran  from  the  station  to  the  inn,  and  be- 
yond it  the  hills  rose  abruptly,  fold  on  fold. 

"  I  know  the  islands  pretty  well  but  I've  never  been 
here,"  said  Kitty. 

They  inquired  for  rooms  and  found  that  the  place, 
which  catered  for  summer  visitors,  was  nearly  empty. 
The  season  was  over.  "  We  close  down  for  the  winter," 
said  the  clerk  simply,  "  but,  of  course,  that  is  not  yet." 
He  opened  the  ledger.  "What  name  shall  I  enter?" 

"  King  —  Mr.  Henry  King." 

"And  wife?" 

"  No."  Harry  had  spoken  without  thinking,  and  for 
a  moment  he  held  his  breath.  What  would  Kitty  do? 

The  clerk  glanced  questioningly  at  her.  "  Sister,"  she 
said  quickly,  "  Miss  King !  " 


336 The  Rolling  Stone 

But  when  they  were  alone  she  flew  at  Harry.  "  How 
could  you !  I  felt  my  cheeks  flame  —  such  a  position  to 
put  me  in!  Any  one  can  see  we  are  not  brother  and 
sister." 

"  Couldn't  tell  a  lie  about  a  thing  like  that,"  said  Harry. 
He  was  confident  that  here  also  he  spoke  the  truth. 

Kitty  looked  at  him  forlornly.  A  man  who  could  not 
lie  for  one,  commit  all  the  sins  of  the  decalogue  for  one ! 
Together  only  a  few  hours  and  already  he  had  left  her 
to  face  the  music !  A  good  thing,  perhaps,  that  she  had 
written  that  letter  to  Ernest  Franks.  He  might  have 
thin  legs  but  you  could  depend  on  him. 

She  went  to  her  room  to  wash  off  the  stains  of  travel. 
Perhaps  there  were  two  kinds  of  men,  lovers  and  husbands, 
the  one  for  holidays,  the  other  for  the  serious  business  of 
life.  She  thought  wistfully  of  Harry.  In  a  room  he  took 
the  eyes  of  women.  In  England,  in  Africa,  wherever  he 
had  been,  women  must  have  felt  for  him  as  she  did;  and 
he  —  had  he  failed  them  as  he  had  failed  her  that  day  ? 
Would  he  fail  every  woman  that  he  fancied  he  loved  or 
who  loved  him  ?  He  would  —  she  knew  it ;  yet  how  des- 
perately she  wanted  him,  wanted  him  not  merely  for  a 
fortnight.  She  loosened  her  soft  glinty  hair  and  ran 
out  on  to  the  landing. 

"  Harry ! " 

He  came  to  his  door. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  suggest  you  put  on  something  you 
can  row  in.  We  might  go  on  the  lake  after  dinner." 

In  her  blue  Japanese  wrap,  the  fleece  of  gold  rippling 
to  her  waist,  she  was  the  sort  of  oleograph  Harry  could 
appreciate.  She  stood  smiling  up  at  him,  and  he  caught 
her  in  his  strong  arms,  pressed  his  hard  lips  to  hers,  and 
whispered  in  her  ear. 

The  clerk,  passing  quietly  through  the  hall,  smiled  to 


The  Rolling  Stone 337 

himself.     "  Not   much   brother   and   sister   about   that," 
said  he. 


"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  back?  "  said  Kitty,  conscious 
of  restlessness  on  Harry's  part,  annoyed  by  it.  "  You 
are  your  own  master." 

"  Want  will  be  my  master  if  I  don't  get  a  job." 

"There  are  more  jobs  going  in  Australia  than  here. 
Why  not  try  your  luck  there  ?  " 

"*I  might." 

"  Oh,  do,  Harry."  She  thought,  "  And  I  will  go  with 
him,  and  in  the  end  he'll  forget  Margaret,  and  I  shall  be 
there,  and  perhaps  —  perhaps  — " 

"  But  just  now,"  said  Harry,  "we're  bound  for  Christ- 
church." 

"  It's  out  of  our  way."  Best  to  take  it  for  granted  she 
was  going  too.  "  The  boat  sails  on  Friday,  and  if  we 
go  straight  down  we  shall  catch  it." 

"  My  trunk  is  at  Christchurch."  He  thought  fondly  of 
his  tools. 

"  They'd  dispatch  it  to  meet  us  at  the  dock.  Let 
me—" 

She  rose,  eager  to  take  the  steps  that  would  ensure  his 
going,  but  Harry  shook  his  head. 

"  You  don't  get  me." 

The  trouble  was  that  she  did,  that  she  understood  too 
well.  For  a  fortnight  she  had  done  all  she  knew,  yet 
at  the  end  of  it  he  was  still  thinking  of  Margaret.  It 
was  like  trying  to  climb  a  slippery  rock,  you  were  up 
one  moment  and  down  the  next.  "  Harry  — "  she  said, 
and  came  across  the  room  to  him  and  perched  herself  on 
the  arm  of  her  chair.  He  was  intermittently  sensuous; 
liked  to  feel  a  hand  on  the  thick  waves  of  his  hair,  a  slow 


338  The  Rolling  Stone 

stroking  hand.  He  would  sit  still  for  minutes  at  a 
time  while  the  hand  passed  over  his  strongly  springing 
crest,  over  the  short  warm  hair  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
the  crisp,  close  hair  above  his  ears  —  would  sit  with  his 
eyes  shut,  enjoying  it. 

As  her  hand  moved  she  thought  in  quick  dismay  that 
this  might  be  the  last  time  she  would  touch  those  dark 
locks.  .  .  . 

Not  that  Margaret  would  take  him  from  her  —  no,  but 
she  had  sensed  in  Harry  an  elusiveness  with  which  she 
knew  that  she  could  not  cope. 

He  would  slip  out  of  her  life  when  she  least  expected  it. 

"  Harry,"  she  whispered,  "  we've  been  happy,  haven't 
we?  " 

"  Very." 

"  Let's  go  on  being  happy,  dear." 

"  Yes." 

"Let's  go  away  together,  just  you  and  me;  let's  stick 
to  each  other." 

He  opened  his  eyes,  looking  out  of  the  window  as  if 
in  search  of  something. 

"  Will  you,  darling,  will  you?  " 

He  sat  up,  moving  his  head  away  from  her  stroking 
hand.  "  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  it's  our  last  day  and  we 
were  going  riding.  That  stable-help  must  have  forgot- 
ten." 

Kitty's  face  fell  into  puckers  and  her  eyes  filled. 
"  You  —  you  are  unkind,"  she  said. 

"  Now,  now,  don't  try  and  come  that  over  me." 

A  tear  splashed  on  to  his  hand.  "  Oh,  Harry  —  you 
must  love  me  a  little." 

"  Very  much,  my  dear." 

"  Then  — " 

He  had  put  her  off  the  chair-arm,  but  she  caught  hold 


The  Rolling  Stone  339 

of  his  hand,  fondling  it.  "  Don't,  don't  leave  me,  Harry, 
I  can't  bear  it."  Yet  at  the  back  of  her  mind  she  knew 
that  he  would. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said.  "  We've  had  a  good  time ;  let 
it  go  at  that." 

"  You  don't  love  me." 

He  had  drawn  his  hand  away  and  gone  to  the  window. 
The  stables  were  to  the  right  of  the  hotel.  He  was  listen- 
ing for  the  sound  of  hoofs  on  the  stones. 
i  Kitty  followed,  but  she  did  not  venture  to  touch  him. 
"  Harry,"  she  said  humbly,  "  there  was  that  man  in  Well- 
ington, but  I  was  young.  I  swear  to  you  I  didn't  know. 
It's  different  now.  I  want  —  I  do  want  to  be  a  good  girl. 
You  have  made  me  want  to.  If  —  if  you  would  help 
me—" 

The  appeal  found  its  way  between  the  cracks,  sank 
through  to  his  heart.  Kitty  was  weak ;  she  clung  to  him, 
needed  him.  Without  him  she  would  go  from  fancy  to 
fancy  till  she  was  down  and  out. 

Turning  from  the  window,  he  put  an  arm  round  her 
shoulders,  and,  for  a  joyful  moment,  she  thought  that 
she  had  won. 

"  Come,"  he  said  soothingly,  "  come,  come." 

She  broke  away  and  flung  herself  into  a  rocking-chair 
by  the  further  window.  Her  little  high-heeled  shoes 
tapped  on  the  polished  boards. 

Harry  whistled,  wishing  the  matter  at  an  end.  Silly 
to  have  taken  the  girl  along ;  he  would  have  been  as  happy 
without  her. 

He  had  not  enjoyed  the  fortnight  overmuch.  Kitty 
was  an  engaging  little  pussy-cat,  she  scratched  and  purred 
lelightfully,  but  kittens  were  not  much  in  his  line.  He 
could  spare  them  an  odd  half-hour  or  so,  but  a  fortnight, 
a  whole  fortnight !  The  last  day  or  two  had  (Dragged., 


340  The  Rolling  Stone 

He  would  be  glad  to  get  back.  He  wanted  to  see  Mar- 
garet again.  Pretty  hopeless,  but  you  never  knew  — 

"  Come  on,"  he  said.  "  Let's  go  and  see  about  those 
horses." 

The  little  foot  stopped  its  irritating  tattoo.  Kitty  sat 
very  still  for  a  moment,  her  face  turned  away,  and  Harry 
thought  she  was  going  to  be  sensible.  Though  he  en- 
joyed scenes,  he  had  had  enough  of  this.  He  came  nearer 
and  bent  over  to  look  into  her  averted  eyes. 

The  confident  glance  was  too  much  for  her.  She  sprang 
up.  She  caught  at  that  defiant  crest  of  curls  and  she 
tugged. 

"Little  cat!"  said  Harry  with  his  chuckling,  jolly 
laugh  as  he  extricated  himself.  "  Well,  now  you've  evened 
up  matters  —  so  let's  go  out." 


Chapter  XVIII 


MARGARET  HOLDEN  could  not  sleep.  A  light 
burned  dimly  in  the  wide  and  airy  room.  It 
was  protected  from  the  breeze  that  came 
through  the  open  window,  and  its  steady  pear-shaped 
flame  cast  a  shimmer  as  of  water  on  the  ceiling.  Mar- 
garet looked  at  it,  hoping  that  to  do  so  would  make  her 
forget  the  little  pain  in  her  side.  Many  times  that  night 
she  had  shifted  her  position,  hoping  to  forget  the  little 
pain,  to  forget  it  in  sleep ;  and  always,  after  a  minute  or 
two,  it  had  begun  again,  a  faint  pushing  sensation,  then 
a  small  definite  ache,  then  — 

Perhaps  if  she  could  leave  off  coughing? 

Foolish  of  her  to  have  sat  about  when  she  was  hot, 
after  playing  tennis  —  when  she  knew,  too,  that  she  was 
liable  to  chills,  that  her  chest  wasn't  strong. 

She  pushed  the  pillows  into  a  hillock  and  leaned  against 
them ;  she  might  be  more  comfortable  sitting  up. 

Her  handkerchief  showed  a  rusty  stain;  that  was  the 
cough.  You  could  not  cough  all  through  a  night  and 
nothing  happen.  Her  poor  chest !  The  cough  seemed 
to  come  from  inside  it,  and  it  shook  her  and  hurt  her. 

She  was  tired  of  lying  in  bed,  tired  of  the  long  night 
and  her  own  restlessness.  If  she  were  to  get  up?  If 
she  were  to  write  one  of  those  letters  —  the  letters  she 
never  sent  .  .  . 

She  wrapped  herself  in  the  white  woollen  gown  that 
hung  over  the  end  of  the  bed,  slipped  her  feet  into  white 

fur   slippers   that   stood   ready,   and   went   to  her   desk. 

841 


342  The  Rolling  Stone 

Her  side  no  longer  hurt  her;  how  could  it  when  she  was 
going  to  write  to  him? 

From  a  secret  drawer  in  the  old  table  she  took  a  special 
pen  and  a  special  pad  of  cream-laid  paper.  The  pen- 
holder was  of  crystal,  a  white  transparency,  and  the  ink 
red.  Almost  every  night  Margaret  wrote  with  it,  and 
every  morning  she  burnt  what  she  had  written. 

"  Beloved,"  she  wrote,  and  sighed  with  the  relief  of 
utterance.  Her  heart  had  been  overcharged  with  that 
word.  She  formed  her  letters  with  care,  took  delight  in 
shaping  them.  "  Beloved !  " 

After  that  she  wrote  quickly. 

"  It  is  strange  how  emotion  ebbs  and  flows.  It  is  like 
the  sea.  When  it  ebbs  you  never  dream  the  tide  will  turn, 
but  the  moment  comes  and  the  little  waves  of  feeling  begin 
to  run  back.  You  may  have  been  glad  to  think  the  ebb 
has  come  and  that  there  will  be  peace.  You  may  have  re- 
joiced in  the  stretches  of  recovered  personality  and  the 
freedom.  But  you  will  do  so  only  for  a  little  time.  Back 
it  comes,  memory,  the  vivid  words,  the  stir  of  the  blood, 
with  finally  the  longing  only  one  person  can  satisfy.  The 
tide  is  full  again,  it  hems  you  in ;  and  its  restlessness  is 
the  restlessness  of  your  heart." 

The  pain  had  returned,  pushing  its  way  from  unknown 
depths  to  the  surface.  Margaret  got  up  and  moved  rest- 
lessly about  the  room.  "What  can  I  do?  Oh  —  what 
can  I  do?  " 

As  before,  the  change  of  position  proved  momentarily 
beneficial.  She  returned  to  the  old  bureau,  to  the  pad 
lying  white  between  the  two  candles,  to  the  half-finished 
script  —  fine  thin  lines  gleaming  in  the  light,  gleaming 
red.  "  I  write  from  my  heart,"  she  said. 

"  The  Buddhist  doctrine  of  absorption  into  the  divine 
used  to  leave  me  cold;  but  I  see  it  differently  now.  To 


The  Rolling  Stone 343 

be  absorbed  in  what  you  love  would  not  be  extinction  but 
life.  It  would  be  like  lying  in  the  sun  on  a  hot  spring 
day.  You  would  be  warmed  through,  you  would  hear 
the  distant  roar  of  the  sea,  the  human  sea,  and  you  would 
have  peace.  You  would  be  satisfied  —  oh,  to  be  satis- 
fied !  —  you  would  sleep,  yet  you  would  still  be  you. 

"  Oh  yes,  Nirvana  for  those  who  love. 

"  Beloved,  if  for  one  hour  I  might  be  absorbed  in  you ! 

"  But  if  I  had  that  hour  I  should  want  another  and  an- 
other —  all  time." 

A  grey  light  was  filtering  through  the  wide  meshes  of 
the  window-curtain  and  the  wind  had  dropped.  A  fit  of 
coughing  tore  Margaret's  delicate  chest  and  the  pain  came 
in  stabs.  She  pushed  the  letter,  with  its  fine  scarlet 
writing,  into  a  drawer,  and  staggered  across  the  room  to 
her  bed.  Another  hour  and  the  maid  would  come  to  her 
with  a  cup  of  tea.  She  had  borne  the  pain  all  night, 
surely  she  could  endure  it  that  one  hour  more?  She  won- 
dered, unhappily,  if  she  could.  She  was  so  hot,  so  un- 
comfortable. She  began  to  feel  as  if  she  were  sinking, 
sinking  through  the  mattress.  A  horrid  feeling!  It 
opened  up  possibilities  of  infinite  descent.  She  saw  herself 
sinking  through  her  little  bed,  through  the  polished  floor 
into  —  oh,  not  into  the  earth  ! 

She  could  not  lay  there  and  face  that  possibility.  Her 
hand  groped  for  the  bell  — 

II 

"  I  think  we  must  have  a  night-nurse  as  well,"  Dr.  Wil- 
loughby  said. 

Old  Joe  Holden  sat  in  his  big  library,  among  the  books 
that  were  to  him  as  furniture.  "  Whatever  you  like, 
doc. ;  you've  only  to  mention  it." 


344  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Well,  then,  I  should  like  another  opinion." 

"Who  will  you  have  —  West?"  Holden  was  a  big 
portly  man,  but  his  florid  colouring  had  faded  and  he 
looked  anxious. 

"  I  would  suggest  Cameron ;  I  think  he's  the  best  chest 
man  in  the  islands." 

"  Get  him  as  quick  as  you  can.  I  suppose  —  "  He 
could  not  ask  the  question ;  he  was  remembering  that  his 
wife  had  died  of  lung-trouble. 

"  I'm  not  satisfied,  Mr.  Holden,  and  that's  the  truth." 

Ill 

Margaret,  in  her  small  white  bed,  was  more  comfortable 
than  she  had  been  since  the  beginning  of  her  illness.  It 
was  good  to  be  adequately  nursed,  to  have  no  bother  about 
anything,  to  resign  oneself. 

She  did  not  want  the  nourishment  they  brought  in  the 
queer  cup  with  a  spout. 

It  was  less  trouble  to  take  it  than  to  refuse.  She  must 
be  really  ill.  Two  nurses  meant  that,  and  if  she  were, 
she  need  no  longer  try  to  keep  Him  out  of  her  thoughts. 
A  little  indulgence !  When  she  got  better  she  would  start 
the  old  treadmill  effort  that  ended  in  nightly  letters  — 
letters  that,  poor  things,  had  to  be  burnt. 

While  she  lay  ill  she  might  drift  a  little  —  yes,  surely. 
She  lay  between  sleeping  and  waking,  and  around  her  was 
darkness,  but  against  that  darkness  was  his  face.  She 
slept  seeing  it,  woke  to  the  vision  of  it. 

Curious  how  near  he  seemed.  It  was  as  if  his  thoughts 
were  holding  her  embraced,  as  if  she  were  resting  on 
them,  on  his  breast.  His  voice  was  in  her  ear,  deepened, 
trembling,  as  she  had  heard  it  once,  twice,  as  she  might 
have  heard  it  often. 


The  Rolling  Stone 345 

The  house  was  very  still.  The  nurse,  a  stranger  to 
Margaret,  was  sitting  by  the  window.  She  was  glad  they 
had  not  sent  for  Kitty  Gray ;  she  preferred  a  stranger. 

In  the  silence  she  heard  the  steps  of  a  man  on  the  tiles 
of  the  hall :  his  step,  but  it  did  not  ring,  it  —  it  dragged. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  also  was  ill?  She  opened  her 
eyes,  and  the  nurse  came  to  her  with  something  in  the 
familiar  cup. 

"  Nurse,"  she  said  in  her  new  voice,  a  voice  that  was 
hoarse  and  difficult,  "  some  one  came.'* 

"  Is  it  some  one  you  would  like  to  see?  " 

"Could  I?" 

If  they  would  allow  her  to  see  people  she  could  not  be 
very  ill. 

"  For  a  moment." 

"Do  I  —  "  she  smiled  faintly,  "do  I  look  all  right?" 

It  was  fortunate,  the  nurse  thought,  that  she  could  not 
see  herself.  "  Oh,  quite  all  right,"  she  said,  and  walked 
crisply  away,  her  starched  skirts  rustling,  her  shoes  mak- 
ing a  dry  sound  on  the  boards.  She  had  seen  Mr.  Mad- 
den come  up  to  the  house  and  she  knew  that  he  had  gone 
into  the  library.  When  she  knocked  on  the  door  he  came 
in  answer.  She  was  thankful  he,  and  not  Mr.  Holden, 
had  come,  for  she  was  afraid  of  Old  Joe;  he  was  so  grim 
and  so  unhappy. 

"  Miss  Holden  would  like  to  see  you." 

His  face  changed.     "Does  it  mean  she  is  better?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  afraid  —  "  She  was  sorry.  "  The  doctors 
said  —  any  wish  that  she  might  express  —  that  it  didn't 
matter." 

He  turned  back  to  tell  Old  Joe  that  Margaret  had 
asked  for  him,  then  followed  the  nurse.  She  had  expected 
that  he  would  ask  her  questions,  but  he  followed  silently. 

Margaret's  poor  altered  face  was  turned  towards  the 


846  The  Rolling  Stone 

door,  and  Philip  Madden  saw  it  with  a  sudden  sinking  of 
the  heart.  He  knew  and  yet  — 

Though  he  knew,  he  had  not  realized  how  ill  she  was. 

The  nurse  went  back  to  her  seat  by  the  window.  Out- 
side was  life,  and  behind  her,  in  the  darkened  airy  room, 
only  things  of  which  she  did  not  wish  to  think. 

"  Margaret !  "  said  the  man,  but  the  hunger  in  his  voice 
was  more  than  Margaret,  enfeebled  and  with  the  feeling 
that  she  was  adrift  between  sleep  and  waking,  that  at  any 
moment  she  might  slip  into  unconsciousness,  could  bear. 

"Don't,"  she  said. 

He  wanted  to  anchor  the  little  drifting  vessel,  wanted 
her,  she  felt,  to  make  some  sort  of  effort. 

"  I  can't,"  she  said  hoarsely.  "  You  —  you  must  let 
me  go."  She  was  weak,  she  could  not  make  the  effort. 

"  No,  no,"  he  whispered.  "  Darling  —  nothing  shall 
come  between  us  after  this.  Get  better,  and  I'll  give  up 
everything  and  we'll  go  away.  I  —  I  want  you  so." 

The  old  cry,  that  he  wanted  her.  For  two  years  he 
had  sought  to  impose  his  will  on  hers. 

He  must  not  talk  of  the  future ;  it  meant  worry  and 
trouble.  She  did  not  want  to  think,  she  wanted  nothing 
so  much  as  peace.  When  he  looked  at  her  like  that  there 
was  no  peace. 

"  Soon  better,"  she  assured  him.  "  Don't  —  don't  be 
anxious."  She  moved  her  hand  a  little.  She  felt  vaguely 
that  he  needed  comfort,  though  she  did  not  understand  why 
he  should. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,"  he  said  brokenly  as  he  laid  his  lips  on 
it,  laid  it  against  his  cheek. 

She  felt  his  trouble  as  a  vibration,  as  something  that 
disturbed  the  stillness.  She  wished  to  drift  away  into  a 
long  dream,  a  dream  of  the  good  days  before  they  knew 


The  Rolling  Stone 347 

they  loved ;  and  his  eyes,  insistent,  even  fierce,  were  hold- 
ing her  back.  "  Tomorrow,"  she  said. 

The  nurse  stirred  in  her  seat  by  the  window,  and  Mad- 
den rose. 

He  went  out  with  his  head,  iron-grey  and  square,  car- 
ried high.  Margaret's  dim  eyes  watched  him,  her  dulling 
ears  listened  to  the  sound  of  those  retreating  steps.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  been  working  a  sampler,  as  if  it  were 
finished  now,  to  the  last  stitch.  She  might  fold  up  the 
canvas,  lay  it  aside  — 

IV 

The  colours  in  which  Mrs.  Madden  clothed  herself  ex- 
pressed the  mood  of  the  moment.  When  she  first  heard 
that  Margaret  was  ill  she  had  put  on  a  wine-coloured 
gown  with  ornaments  of  barbaric  gold,  heavy  bosses  which 
as  she  moved  swung  together  with  a  metallic  sound. 

Margaret,  who  had  been  young  and  strong,  who  had 
been  able  to  go  about,  to  play  tennis,  to  ride  with  Phillip, 
Margaret  was  ill. 

Her  turn  to  be  helpless  and  inadequate,  to  see  others 
doing  and  going. 

That  day  Mrs.  Madden  could  not  rest  on  her  sofa ;  she 
got  up  at  intervals,  she  made  little  attempts  at  a  return 
to  everyday  occupations.  Margaret's  illness  was  a  stim- 
ulus. 

She  sent  often  to  inquire,  but  the  inquiries  were  never 

"  kind." 

Margaret  stood  between  her  and  hope;  if  —  if  there 
were  no  Margaret  — 

Mrs.  Madden  knew  something  about  septic  pneumonia ; 
one  of  her  brothers  had  died  of  it.  Her  thought  went 


348  The  Rolling  Stone 

again  and  again  to  that  sharp  illness,  so  short,  only  three 
days.     His  life  blown  out  —  like  a  candle. 

She  remembered  her  mother's  face,  its  white  bewilder- 
ment. Even  though  her  mother  had  been  dead  these  ten 
years,  she  felt  a  little  ache  of  pity  for  her;  she  had  been 
so  stricken. 

She  pitied  her  mother,  she  pitied  Mr.  Holden ;  but  for 
Philip,  for  Margaret,  she  had  no  pity. 

Margaret  should  not  have  come  between  her  and 
Philip. 

There  is  love  and  love:  the  one  is  but  amorous  adven- 
ture, it  is  of  the  flesh,  it  comes  and  goes ;  the  other  — 
Rosa  Madden  loved  her  husband  — 

He  might  have  come  back  to  her,  given  her  love  for 
love,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Margaret. 

If  it  had  been  Kitty  Gray  it  would  have  been  amorous 
adventure,  nothing  more. 

But  with  Margaret  it  was  different. 

For  months  now  —  perhaps  even  years,  she  could  not 
remember,  but,  at  any  rate,  for  a  long,  long  time  —  her 
heart  had  been  wrung  with  fear.  If  he  cared  for  Margaret 
in  that  way  — 

How  she  hated  Margaret ! 

And  now  Margaret  was  ill.  Rosa  Madden  clashed  her 
heavy  bosses  of  gold  and  moved  about  the  room.  She,  the 
invalid,  the  dispossessed,  she  was  comparatively  well. 

Philip  did  not  come  near  her.  She  saw  him  go  across 
to  the  Holdens'  house,  guessed  that  he  was  sitting  with 
Holden. 

The  specialist  had  been.  So  they  had  had  Cameron, 
not  West?  Well,  West  was  past  his  work. 

Mrs.  Madden  sent  over  to  know  the  result.  The  Hol- 
dens were  their  most  intimate  friends.  Natural  that  she 
should  want  to  know. 


The  Rolling  Stone 349 

Mr.  Cameron  had  recommended  this,  recommended  that 
—  "  the  resources  of  science !  " 

A  day  and  a  night;  and  Mrs.  Madden  heard  the  drag 
of  Philip's  step  as  he  came  in  for  a  bath.  He  had  shared 
Holden's  vigil,  and  now  Holden  was  with  his  child. 

Philip  was  tired,  and  though  his  grief  and  tiredness  were 
for  another  woman,  Rosa  found  herself  thinking  of  him. 
Poor  Philip,  he  could  not  help  himself. 

She  took  from  her  hanging  cupboard  a  quiet-coloured 
gown.  Her  mood  had  changed,  was  changing.  That  day 
she  did  not  move  about,  but  lay  on  the  black-and-gold  sofa 
and  kept  watch.  At  first  she  watched  the  house  opposite. 

Philip  was  avoiding  her.  Since  the  beginning  of  Mar- 
garet's illness  she,  Rosa,  had  not  seen  him  to  speak  to. 
She  had,  of  course,  seen  him.  When  old  Holden  was  up- 
stairs Philip  would  come  out  of  the  house,  and  he  would 
walk  up  and  down.  Every  time  he  turned  Rosa  saw  his 
face.  She  lay  there,  and  after  a  time  she  did  not  see  the 
house,  she  saw  only  his  face. 

She  could  not  endure  that  he  should  be  so  unhappy. 

Her  hope  —  that  last  hope  —  the  hope  she  had  been 
cherishing!  Well  —  what  did  it  matter?  Some  days 
were  cloudy,  had  no  sun,  and  her  life  was  such  a  day. 

Because  she  loved  him  she  must  let  him  go.  She  did 
not  want  to  but  she  must  — 'she  must. 

The  boundary  between  their  garden  and  the  Holdens* 
was  a  row  of  low  shrubs.  It  was  easy  for  Rosa  Madden  to 
pass  from  the  one  lawn  to  the  other. 

Holden  was  with  Margaret,  and  Philip  was  pacing  to 
and  fro  below  her  window.  He  walked  along  the  side  of 
the  house.  At  the  corner  he  turned  and  went  up  again. 
He  walked  mechanically  because  his  thoughts  were  with 
Margaret,  and  also  because  he  had  not  slept  for  many 
hours. 


350  The  Rolling  Stone 

As  he  reached  the  corner  he  saw  the  tall,  angular  figure 
of  Rosa  coming  towards  him  across  the  sward.  What  did 
she  want? 

"  Philip,"  she  said  harshly,  and  behind  the  high  cheek- 
bones her  eyes  glittered  with  a  queer  fierce  light,  "  would 
it  help  if  —  if  I  set  you  free?  " 

An  indescribably  bitter  look  came  into  Madden's  face. 
"Now?"  he  said,  and  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 
"  If  you  had  done  it  two  years  ago  —  but,  now?  " 

He  turned  his  back,  striding  away,  striding  like  a  man 
possessed.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  suffocating,  suffocating 
with  rage.  The  sense  of  what  he  was  losing,  of  what  — 
if  this  feeble,  inefficient  life  had  not  blocked  the  way  —  he 
might  have  had,  had  overwhelmed  him.  He  wanted  to 
take  Rosa  by  the  throat,  to  shake  her,  shake  the  breath 
out  of  her.  That  she  should  still  be  cumbering  the  earth ! 

And  in  the  room  above,  Margaret,  lulled  by  the  sound 
of  that  continuous  pacing,  half-opened  her  eyes.  "  Phil- 
ip's voice  1 "  she  murmured. 


Rosa's  back  hurt  her.  In  crossing  the  gardens  she  had 
attempted  more  than  with  comfort  she  could  perform. 
She  found  the  return  journey  a  matter  of  time  and  pa- 
tience; but  at  last  she  was  leaning  against  the  drawing- 
room  window,  the  long  open  window. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  ill,"  said  a  voice  from  within. 
"  Allow  me !  "  and  suddenly  she  was  lifted,  she  was  being 
carried,  she  lay  once  more  on  the  black-and-gold  sofa. 

"  Oh  —  it  is  Mr.  King !  "  she  said  feebly.  A  tall  woman, 
she  had  been  wafted  across  the  room  as  if  she  had  been 
a  baby  in  arms.  "  I  thought  you  were  at  Orea." 

"  Just  back,"  he  said  vaguely.     "  I  dropped  into  the 


The  Rolling  Stone  351 

club,  and  when  I  heard  the  news,  of  course,  I  came  out." 
He  looked  at  her  inquiringly ;  he  was  hoping  against  hope 
that  she  would  have  good  tidings  for  him. 

"  Margaret  is  a  delicate  girl,  Mr.  King,  no  stamina." 

"  You  can't  mean  —  " 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  got  up  and  moved  about 
the  room.  At  all  times  a  restless  fellow,  it  seemed  now 
as  if  he  could  not  be  still,  and  after  a  time  the  housewife 
in  her  took  alarm  for  her  delicate  old  cane  chairs  with 
the  inlet  mother-o'-pearl.  She  need  not  have  feared. 
Harry's  movements  were  as  sure,  as  light,  as  those  of  a 
dancer. 

"  May  I  stay  for  a  little?  "  he  said. 

"  Stay  as  long  as  you  like." 

He  came  over  to  the  sofa.  "  You  too,  you  were  fond 
of  her." 

"  Oh,  very,"  said  Rosa  Madden. 

"  She  was  always  here." 

"  Yes." 

"  Of  course,  she  was  very  much  younger  than  you." 

The  lines  by  Mrs.  Madden's  mouth  deepened.  "  Young 
enough  to  be  my  daughter." 

"  And  so  bonnie."  He  twisted  round  in  his  chair. 
"  You  were  so  kind  to  her,  you  and  Mr.  Madden." 

"  She  was  fond  of  —  of  us." 

He  got  up,  found  another  chair,  brought  it  forward. 
"  I  can't  understand  it.  I've  only  been  away  a  fortnight, 
and  when  I  went  she  was  quite  well." 

"Quite  well." 

"  And  now  —  " 

"  It  is  septic  pneumonia,  Mr.  King." 

He  got  up.  "I'll  just  go  over  and  inquire;  there 
may  —  "  he  looked  at  her  questioningly,  "  there  might  be 
a  crisis." 


352  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Oh  yes,  go,"  she  said. 

The  news  was  the  same.  Margaret  was  slowly  sinking 
and  nothing  —  no  device  of  science  —  could  stay  her. 
Mr.  Cameron  had  been  again,  he  had  sat  for  some  time  with 
Old  Joe  in  the  desolate  library,  and  now  he  was  gone.  The 
sun  was  rising  over  other  lands  but  it  was  setting  here. 

"  It  is  getting  late,"  said  Harry. 

"  You  need  not  bother  about  that,  Mr.  King ;  I  shall 
not  go  to  bed." 

He  looked  at  her  gracefully.  "  No,  of  course  you 
wouldn't." 

What  a  difference  it  made  when  you  were  in  trouble, 
tto  be  with  some  one  who  was  in  like  case. 

"  But,"  said  Rosa  Madden  suddenly,  "  you  don't  love 
Margaret ! " 

He  stared  in  blank  amazement.  "  I've  never  loved  a 
woman  as  I  love  her,"  he  answered. 

"  Then  you  have  loved  ?  " 

K«,  hesitated.     "  I  don't  know." 

"  Perhaps  women  have  loved  you?  " 

He  looked  at  her  but  did  not  answer. 

"Have  they?" 

"  Perhaps." 

"  And  you  —  what  do  you  want?  " 

"  A  friend." 

"  Most  men  want  a  sweetheart." 

"  I  don't."  Harry  twisted  himself  about  so  that  his 
feet  were  hanging  over  the  arm  of  his  chair.  Mrs.  Mad- 
den thought  whimsically  that  presently  they  would  be 
hanging  over  the  back.  How  queer  he  would  look  !  —  but 
no,  not  much  queerer  than  he  did  now.  To  her  he  seemed 
a  boy,  foolish,  rather  a  dear.  She  would  make  him  talk ; 
it  would  help  to  pass  the  time. 

"Well?" 


The  Rolling  Stone  353 

"  It's  this  way.  Men  aren't  your  friends,  they  are 
your  rivals ;  you  are  out  to  get  the  better  of  them  if  you 
can.  And  women?  Well,  women  want  you  to  make  love 
to  them.  But  I'm  lonely,  I  want  a  friend.  I  thought 
that  Margaret  —  " 

"  Margaret,"  said  Rosa  bitterly,  "  has  all  the  friendship 
that  she  needs." 

"  Ah ! "  he  said  simply,  "  I  was  afraid  there  was  some 
one  else." 

"  And  it  doesn't  matter." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

She  stared  past  him  into  the  darkness  of  the  garden. 
"  To  think  it  should  have  come  to  that ! " 

They  sat  for  a  time  in  silence,  but  Harry  could  not  be 
quiet,  could  not  be  still.  He  moved  away,  he  came  back. 
At  last  he  began  to  talk  to  her  of  old  times,  old  memories, 
the  railway  town. 

"  You  wanted  to  be  a  pugilist,"  she  said.  "  Well  — 
why  not? " 

He  looked  surprised. 

"  My  father  was  against  it." 

"Why  did  he  object?" 

"  He  was  afraid  of  my  becoming  brutalized." 

"  It  was  for  you  to  decide." 

"  I  thought  there  was  something  in  it." 

"  A  man  has  to  take  risks." 

"  If  I  could  have  felt  that  fighting  was  right  I'd  have 
gone  on  with  it,  but  I  couldn't  —  quite." 

"  Having  given  it  all  up,  you  are  at  peace  with  your 
conscience,  you  are  quite  happy,  quite  satisfied?  " 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Harry,  "  that  is  not  so.  I  have 
been  all  over  the  world  looking  for  something  that  I  liked 
as  much ;  I  can't  find  it." 

"  You  never  will." 


354  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Oh,  come !  " 

"  Are  you  very  keen  to  go  on  living?  " 

"  Not  very.     You  see,  there's  nothing  worth  while." 

"  No." 

The  moon  was  rising.  The  pallid  beams,  passing 
through  the  farther  window,  fell  on  the  strange  com- 
panions —  on  the  outline  of  Mrs.  Madden's  head,  on  Har- 
ry's face.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  nothing  else  will  be  quite 
worth  while.  You  were  afraid,  you  did  not  dare,  you 
gave  up  the  big  thing."  She  pushed  the  stiff  cushions 
farther  under,  pulling  herself  higher  on  the  couch.  "  This 
is  how  I  see  life.  Most  of  us  are  born  to  do  some  one 
thing,  to  love  some  one  person.  We  can't  pick  and 
choose.  It's  take  it  or  leave  it ;  you'll  get  nothing  more. 
You  had  your  bent  —  fighting ;  the  Lord  God  gave  it  you, 
He  made  it  the  fulfilment  of  your  nature,  and  —  you 
let  yourself  be  turned  from  it.  Ah  —  poor  boy  !  " 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  cogitating.  "  Yes,"  he  said 
at  last,  "  I  think  you've  hit  it." 

"  Only  one  thing  we  want  to  do,  one  person  we  can 
love;  not  much,  but  all  we  get."  She  put  her  hand  over 
her  eyes.  One  person  she  could  love,  the  one  who  had 
turned  away.  Why?  Her  health,  because  she  had  not 
borne  him  children?  Why  —  because!  The  answer  was 
no  answer.  Why  had  he  left  her?  He  could  not  have 
said.  It  had  happened  so.  He  had  not  meant  to,  had  not 
wanted  to,  but  he  had  seen  Margaret,  the  person  that  he, 
in  his  turn,  could  love;  and  he  had  not  been  able  to  help 
himself. 

The  night  wore  on,  and  sometimes  the  strange  compan- 
ions talked,  but  more  often  they  listened  —  listened  to 
dull  and  far-off  sounds,  the  faint  suspicious  noises  of  the 
dark,  listened  to  their  own  hearts. 

Mrs.  Madden  drowsed,  and  even  Harry  ceased  his  rest- 


The  Rolling  Stone  355 

less  movements.  A  lassitude  that  was  the  beginning  of 
peace  had  fallen  on  them.  Once  and  again  Harry  crossed 
the  gardens  to  ask  for  news. 

In  the  chill  hour  before  the  dawn  a  little  wind  broke 
like  a  ripple  over  the  earth.  A  bird  rose,  calling  to  those 
who  lingered,  and  Harry  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"  It  is  the  day,"  he  said  as  he  went  out,  and  Mrs.  Mad- 
den knew  that  this  time  he  would  not  come  back  —  knew 
that  Margaret  slept. 

VI 

She  lay  very  quietly  on  her  sofa  watching  the  darkness 
thin  into  day.  At  dawn  Philip  came  out  of  the  Holdens* 
house,  walking  slowly.  He  had  grown  old  during  the 
long  hours  of  the  night.  Rosa  listened  to  the  dragging 
steps.  Would  he  come  to  her?  Her  heart  was  brimming. 
Oh,  if  he  would  but  come ! 

The  steps  went  by  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  and 
she  half  rose.  If  she  dared  call  to  him!  They  went  on 
to  his  room.  She  heard  him  go  in,  and  still  she  waited 
and  listened. 

The  key  turned  in  the  lock,  and  Rosa  Madden  fell  back 
on  the  sofa.  She  was  outside  his  life ;  Margaret  was  still 
between  them.  He  would  not  come  back. 


Chapter  XIX 


IN  the  smoking-room  the  men  had  settled  down  to  cards. 
As  Harry  could  play  a  bluffing  game  but  not  one  that 
required  thought,  he  had  left  the  crowd  and  estab- 
lished himself  on  the  red-cushioned  seat  that  stretched  from 
end  to  end,  along  the  wooden  wall.      Sitting  there,  he  could 
watch  the  long  procession  of  the  waves. 

Coming  round  Cape  Horn  the  ship  had  experienced  a 
spell  of  calm  cold  weather.  Whales  had  spouted,  the  sun 
had  glittered  on  the  pinnacles  of  an  iceberg.  But  since 
then  the  weather  had  been  foul.  A  succession  of  gales 
had  buffeted  the  liner  across  the  deep,  and  Harry  had 
grown  weary  of  the  roughness  and  the  cold.  He  had  a 
cough,  and  felt  the  ship  was  ill-found,  full  of  draughts. 
Forty-one  days  on  board,  11,266  miles  covered.  A  sail- 
ing-ship was  one  thing ;  but  life  on  a  liner  was  too  full  — 
for  him  —  of  chin-wagging. 

Forgotten  by  the  card-players,  he  stretched  himself 
along  the  red  velvet  cushions  and  added  a  note  to  the 
many  in  the  shiny  black  book.  "  Ap.  20.  Gale  and  big 
sea.  Hailstones.  Lots  of  people  nearly  washed  over- 
board, lee-side  alleyway.  Stable  companion  broke  loose 
last  night  and  confided.  He  was  just  out  of  an  asylum. 
Cheerful ! 

"  Usual  growling  and  contentiousness.  Can't  do  with 
it.  Most  deadly  lot  I  have  ever  encountered.  Hardly  a 
saving  individual. 

"  Depressed.     The  old  feeling  of  negation. 

356 


The  Rolling  Stone  357 

"  Wonder  if  father  will  meet  me  in  London  !  He  doesn't 
know  when  I  shall  arrive.  Still,  he  was  always  good  at 
ferreting  out  things." 

Shutting  the  book,  he  restored  it  to  his  pocket  and 
took  out  some  letters.  The  ship  was  entering  the  channel. 
As  well,  perhaps,  to  read  them  again. 

On  his  return  from  the  Maddens'  house  he  had  found 
them  awaiting  him,  and  after  glancing  through  them  has- 
tily, had  laid  them  aside. 

One  was  from  Kitty  Gray.  He  had  written  to  her  from 
Rio,  giving  her  his  home  address.  A  dear  little  sweet- 
heart —  Kitty ! 

The  other  —  a  thick  black-edged  letter  —  was  from  his 
sister  Nancy.  The  black  edge  had  filled  him  with  appre- 
hension. 

His  father?  He  trusted  not.  One  reason  for  going 
home  was  that  he  wanted  to  see  the  old  man  again. 

The  first  words  of  the  letter  had  relieved  that  anxiety. 
Mr.  King  was  hale,  was  still  only  dallying  with  the  idea 
of  retirement.  The  sign  of  mourning  had  been  for  a 
younger  member  of  the  family. 

Bet  had  been  married  to  Jack  Tremaine  for  some  years ; 
they  had  prospered  but  had  had  no  children.  The  depri- 
vation being  sore,  they  had  consulted  a  doctor  and  he  had 
advised  an  operation  —  only  a  slight  operation,  Nancy 
said. 

Bet  had  gone  into  a  nursing  home  to  have  it  done,  and, 
to  the  surprise,  the  horror,  of  the  family,  had  died  the 
following  day,  died  from  shock.  Harry,  himself  mourn- 
ing a  loss,  had  wept  for  Bet.  In  her  death  she  was  nearer 
to  him  than  she  had  been  in  life.  The  longing  she  had 
felt  was  one  of  which  he  too  was  dimly  conscious.  Child- 
ren? Why,  of  course.  He  felt  with  Bet,  that  life  with- 
out them  was  not  good  enough.  The  plucky  old  dear! 


358 The  Rolling  Stone 

She  would  not  hesitate,  not  she !  She  would  make  her  ar- 
rangements, set  the  house  in  order  for  Jack,  then  take  his 
arm  and  walk  to  the  nursing-home.  He  could  see  them 
—  Jack  pretty  down  in  the  mouth,  but  Bet  talking  cheer- 
fully. When  the  door  was  shut  between  them,  when  she 
was  on  the  dark  side  of  it,  her  face  might  change ;  but 
no,  she  had  herself  to  bluff.  She  would  be  sanguine  and 
hopeful  till  she  stepped  through  that  other  doorway. 
And  then? 

Poor  old  Bet !     Where  was  she  now? 
Did  she  mind? 

It  was,  after   all,  interesting  to   die;  you  found  out 
things.     Yes,  but  to  die  before  the  proper  time,  before 
you  were  three  score  and  ten? 
No  catch  in  that. 

A  tear  ran  out  of  Harry's  eye  and  down  his  nose  — 
not  the  full  round  tear  of  youth,  but  one  that  was  small 
and  impoverished.  Rotten  luck  that  Bet  should  have 
lost  her  life !  Hard,  too,  on  old  Jack.  He  was  a  stick- 
in-the-mud,  Jack ;  he  would  not  get  over  it  in  a  hurry, 
he  might  never  get  over  it. 

Harry  saw  his  brother-in-law,  big  and  fair  and  slow, 
sitting  by  himself  in  diggings,  and  his  heart  swelled.  He 
had  known  Jack  for  so  many  years,  knew  him  so  well,  good 
points  and  bad.  He  was  terribly  sorry  for  old  Jack. 

The  letter  was  long.  Nancy  did  not  like  letter-writing, 
but  for  once  she  had  squared  her  elbows  to  the  task.  A 
good  deal  had  happened  since  she  last  wrote.  Poor  Bet, 
and  then  there  was  Mab.  Mab  had  been  and  gone  and 
done  it;  she  was  married.  Did  Harry  remember  Albert 
Swinton?  Perhaps  he  would  not,  but  Swinton  had  served 
his  apprenticeship  in  the  railway  works.  "  I  don't  like 
him ;  he's  the  carncying  sort,  curries  favour  with  father. 
There  is  no  doubt  he  is  out  for  what  he  can  get.  He  lost 


The  Rolling  Stone  359 

his  job  a  fortnight  after  they  were  married  and  seems  un- 
able to  get'  another,  but  I  hear  there  are  plenty  going. 
Meanwhile  they  live  with  us." 

Swinton?  There  had  been  a  Swinton  at  the  works. 
Harry  had  some  difficulty  in  recalling  him.  A  pasty- 
faced  lad  with  pimples?  He  remembered  the  pimples,  also 
that  he  had  had  stiff  fair  hair  that  stood  up ! 

One  of  the  crowd :  what  a  man  for  Mab  to  have  picked ! 
A  sponger  too.  Poor  father!  He  wouldn't  like  to  kick 
the  fellow  out,  but  Harry  was  on  his  way  home;  he'd  see 
that  Swinton  got  a  job. 

He  turned  back  to  the  letter.  Nancy,  discontented 
with  her  lot  —  she  taught  in  a  secondary  school  —  had 
decided  to  leave  home.  "  Father  does  not  approve,  but 
I'm  fed  up  with  the  place.  I've  had  work  offered  me  in 
Saskatchewan  and  I'm  off." 

Harry  reflected.  "  If  I'm  thirty-four  she  must  be  — 
let  me  see  —  thirty.  Well,  time  she  saw  something  of 
the  world." 

Bet  dead,  Mab  married,  Nancy  in  Canada !  The  girls 
had  not  done  well.  The  old  man  had  worked  hard  in  or- 
der to  procure  them  a  good  education,  but  something  had 
been  lacking.  Harry  wondered  about  it.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  college  education  made  women  too  big  for  their 
opportunities?  He  had  the  feeling  that  his  sisters,  fine 
women  as  they  were  physically,  were  less  feminine  than, 
say,  Ethel. 

They  had  chances  but  did  not  grasp  them,  did  not  think 
them  good  enough,  preferred  to  wait. 

If  a  jig  thing  had  offered  they  would  have  taken  it, 
but  it  was  that  or  nothing. 

Bet  childless ;  Mab,  at  thirty,  taking  up  with  a  ne-er-do- 
well ;  Nancy  adrift ! 

Thev  had  turned  out  very  differently  from  the  boys, 


360  The  Rolling  Stone 

No  flies  on  Richard !  Harry  thought  of  his  brother's 
spacious  home  by  the  Nile,  of  his  entertaining  Great  Ones, 
entertaining  them  as  equals.  Oh,  Richard  was  all  right. 
James  too :  James  was  the  responsible  head  of  a  depart- 
ment and  married  to  Ella ;  James  was  in  a  better  position 
than  the  old  man. 

Richard  and  James  had  proved  entirely  satisfactory, 
they  had  fulfilled  their  father's  expectations.  And  he? 

He  chinked  a  few  coins  in  his  pocket.  He  had  been 
absent  from  England  ten  years  and  during  that  time  he 
had  garnered  sheaves  of  experience.  Yes !  Wherever  he 
had  been  he  had  left  his  mark:  he  had  erected  quarantine 
plant,  built  barges,  wharves,  barracks,  waterworks,  cranes, 
tunnels,  towers  —  what  hadn't  he  done  ?  In  the  old  Sar- 
atoga trunk  were  photographs  of  his  minute  scratchings 
and  buildings  on  the  mighty  round  of  the  globe.  He  might 
not  have  made  money ;  but  to  the  best  of  his  ability  he  had 
worked.  Harry  might  have  neither  gold  nor  glory  but 
he  had  done  his  bit,  had  been  a  pioneer.  What  more  would 
you  have? 

The  card-players  pushed  back  their  chairs  and  one,  a 
red-faced  jolly  man,  came  up  to  him.  "After  dinner, 
what  do  you  say  to  a  game  of  poker,  King?  " 

"  I'm  on,"  said  Harry. 

II 

Heavy  weather  in  the  channel  and  a  thick  haze  hiding 
the  land !  Harry,  who,  though  as  undemonstrative  as 
the  ordinary  tom-cat,  liked  attention  —  a  judicious 
amount  of  stroking  —  hoped  that  letters  would  be  await- 
ing him  at  Plymouth. 

His  family,  however,  was  not  of  the  stroking  kind. 
That  their  prodigal  was  longing  for  signs  of  affection  and 


The  Rolling  Stone  361 

rejoicing  did  not  occur  to  them.  They  had  not  written. 
Why  should  they?  They  would  see  him  before  long. 

When  the  liner,  at  seven  of  an  April  morning,  reached 
the  Albert  Docks  Harry  had  looked  eagerly  for  a  home- 
face  and  looked  in  vain.  The  boat  special  took  him  to 
Liverpool  Street,  and  from  Paddington  he  caught  a  train 
which  after  a  couple  of  hours'  slow  travelling,  would  land 
him  in  the  railway  town.  He  did  not  care.  Securing  a 
corner  seat,  he  sat  scanning  the  familiar  country  side, 
watching  for  landmarks  that  he  remembered,  that  he 
had  known  all  his  life. 

Of  the  seven  elms  which  had  stretched  slantwise  across 
the  big  meadow  one  was  gone.  Some  winter  storm !  The 
asylum,  however,  looked  as  greyly  desolate  as  ever ;  in  the 
grounds  deplorable  little  groups  were  still  wandering. 
The  river  ran  over  the  weir  with  the  identical  curl  of  snowy 
foam  that  he  had  so  often  seen ;  it  dropped  smoothly  into 
the  old  brown  depths.  A  few  more  houses  along  the  route, 
more  factories.  His  heart  distinguished  between  the  new 
and  the  old  with  an  emotion  that  was  almost  painful. 

When  he  stepped  out  of  the  train  he  glanced  about  him 
with  a  sudden  hope;  but  no,  nobody.  He  thought  the 
station  very  dingy  and  he  hated  the  advertisements.  He 
also  disliked  the  look  of  the  ticket-collector,  for  he,  alas ! 
was  young  and  knew  not  Harry.  A  different  return  this 
from  the  one  he  had  planned  1  He  gave  directions  about 
his  luggage  and  walked  away. 

Ten  years ! 

He  had  intended  to  make  a  fortune,  grow  famous,  bring 
back  with  him  a  name  which  should  ring  familiar  in  the 
ears  of  home-keeping  youth.  Well,  time  enough ;  he  would 
do  it  yet.  He  turned  the  corner  into  Parkside,  and  his 
glance  fell  on  the  grey  palings.  He  had  dreamed  of  re- 
turning with  enough  money  to  buy  up  squire's  mortgaged 


362  The  Rolling  Stone 

estate.  The  old  red  manor-house  glowed  cheerfully  be- 
tween the  trees,  and  in  Harry's  pocket  lay  but  a  couple 
of  sovereigns.  He  was  as  poor,  poorer,  than  when  he 
went  away.  No  matter !  His  chance  would  come. 

He  had  his  record  of  work  done.  He  had  his  hope  for 
the  future,  his  belief  that  God  had  interposed  to  preserve 
him  both  in  sickness  and  in  war,  that  God  had  chosen  him, 
and  that  in  His  good  time  the  way  would  be  made  clear. 

Harry's  mind  was  at  rest.  He  could  look  with  uncon- 
cern at  the  red  house  among  the  trees.  Some  day  he 
would  have  the  money  to  buy  it. 

Meanwhile  he  was  very  glad  to  be  home.  A  shower  had 
settled  the  dust  and  the  sweetness  of  burgeoning  life  was 
in  the  air.  England  was  a  good  place  to  come  back  to. 
"  England,  mighty  mother !  " 

The  gate  of  No.  14  Parkside  stood  open,  and  taking 
that  as  an  omen  of  welcome,  he  ran  up  the  rough  granite 
steps.  Another  moment  and  he  would  be  among  his  folks. 
He  thundered  on  the  door,  excited,  very  happy  — 

"Who  is  it?"  A  middle-sized  man,  opening  the  door 
a  few  inches,  stood  in  the  aperture.  Harry  had  an  idea 
this  might  be  Swinton,  but  he  was  not  sure.  The  man 
looked  as  if  he  resented  Harry's  knock  and  Harry's  ap- 
pearance —  meant,  in  fact,  to  keep  him  out. 

"  I'm  Harry  King  and  I'm  coming  in."  He  leaned  for- 
ward and  the  other  hastily  gave  place. 

"  Mab ! " 

She  came  out  of  the  dining-room,  a  napkin  in  her  hand, 
her  mouth  still  working. 

"Why,  it's  Henry!" 

"  The  same !  "  He  gave  her  a  cool  brotherly  kiss  and 
looked  into  the  room.  A  meal  was  on  the  table  but  only 
two  places  had  been  laid.  "  Where's  mother?  " 

"  Come  in  here  first," 


The  Rolling  Stone 363 

"Where's  mother?" 

"  You  can't  see  her,  she's  in  bed.      She's  got  a  chill." 

"Can't  see  her?"  said  the  amazed  Harry. 

"  She  isn't  well.     It  would  be  too  much  of  a  shock." 

"  Rot !  "  He  was  already  on  the  stairs,  and  a  moment 
later  husband  and  wife  heard  him  rap  on  Mrs.  King's  door. 
"Are  you  there,  mother?  Can  I  come  in?" 

She  knew  the  voice.     "  Come  in,  come  in,  Henry." 

She  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  a  shawl  round  her  shoulders, 
and  he  saw  with  regret  that  her  hair,  her  thick  strong 
hair,  was  now  iron-grey ;  otherwise  the  ten  years  had  not 
changed  her  much.  He  kissed  her,  thinking  she  did  not 
look  ill. 

"  Seeing  you,  Henry,  has  done  me  good.  I  feel  better. 
I  shall  dress  and  come  down." 

"  Ay  —  do." 

"Have  you  had  your  dinner?" 

Same  old  mother,  her  first  thought  the  material  welfare 
of  her  brood !  "  I'll  get  some  tucker  while  you  are  dress- 
ing." 

In  the  dining-room  Mab  had  laid  a  place  for  him.  Her 
manner  was  uneasy.  He  felt  that  she  was  not  glad  to 
see  him,  that  his  return  interfered  in  some  way  with  her 
plans.  Well,  if  she  meant  to  quarter  herself  and  her 
husband  on  the  old  people  for  the  rest  of  their  lives  she 
had  better  look  out.  He,  Harry,  would  not  stand  it. 
Share  and  share  alike  was  his  motto.  While  he  ate  his 
sister  gave  him  the  news.  Nancy  had  gone  to  Canada ; 
she  had  been  offered  a  post  as  librarian.  Oh,  he  knew? 
Did  he  know  that  Jack  Tremaine  was  going  back  to  Buenos 
Ayres  ?  He  could  not  stick  England  now  that  Bet  — 
her  glance  went  to  the  water-colours  Bet  had  painted  while 
still  at  school. 

Mab  was  in  black,  Swinton  too.     Harry  grew  conscious 


364  The  Rolling  Stone 

that  he  was  wearing  a  blue  shot-silk  tie.     He  had  a  black 
one  in  his  box ;  after  dinner  he  would  run  up  and  change. 

As  he  listened  he  glanced  from  his  sister  to  her  husband. 
Mab  was  thirty  but  she  looked  older,  she  wasn't  wearing 
well.  She  had  a  peaked  elfin  face,  mouth  and  chin  the 
same  shape ;  her  eyes  also  were  on  the  slant,  and  her  rus- 
set dark  hair  came  down  into  a  point.  She  wasn't  a  bit 
pretty,  but  something  about  her  face  made  him  think 
of  wings.  He  wondered  if  she  cared  for  Swinton.  Was 
if  possible  she  could?  The  fellow  had  a  long,  thin  nose 
and  he  talked  in  a  drawly  voice,  and  at  the  end  of  every 
sentence  he  sniffed. 

"You  see,  don't  you,  King?"  Sniff!  "Bad  thing, 
wasn't  it,  King?  "  Sniff! 

Harry's  habit  was  to  eat  in  silence,  to  eat  with  enjoy- 
ment and  give  thanks  to  the  cook  —  as  he  phrased  it, 
"  stomach-felt  thanks." 

When  he  had  finished  he  got  up.  "  I'm  going  round 
the  house." 

"  Like  me  to  come  with  you  ?  "  offered  Swinton. 

"I  shouldn't." 

He  meant  to  start  at  the  front  door  and  renew  acquain- 
tance with  every  room  upstairs  and  down.  Swinton  to 
go  along?  Swinton  to  keep  an  eye  on  him?  The  cheek 
of  it! 

What  were  they  after?  The  old  man's  savings?  They 
had  better  look  out. 

He  started  on  his  perambulations.  In  the  hall,  over 
each  doorway,  was  a  pair  of  mounted  horns.  "  New  since 
my  time,"  said  Harry,  and  went  towards  the  nearest. 
"  Jove !  —  they  are  some  I  sent." 

He  was  surprised  and  pleased.  In  the  drawing-room 
it  was  the  same ;  in  fact,  the  aspect  of  every  room  in  the 
house  had  been  sensibly  altered  by  contributions  from  him. 


The  Rolling  Stone 365 

He  had  no  idea  that  he  had  sent  home  so  many  curios ; 
they  hung  on  walls,  they  stood  on  tables,  they  lay  in  cab- 
inets. He  patted  himself  on  the  back.  They  showed  that 
he  had  not  forgotten  the  old  people,  the  old  home,  that 
out  of  sight,  with  him  was  not  out  of  mind. 

It  was  evident  that  his  offerings  had  been  acceptable, 
that  they  were  prized.  Assegais,  skins,  gold  quartz, 
Kafir  beads,  greenstone  —  they  had  been  set  forth  to  the 
best  advantage.  He  could  imagine  his  mother's  "  Another 
box  from  Henry  !  Now  where  shall  we  — " 

He  could  see  his  father  pottering  round,  putting  the 
horns  here,  the  assegais  there,  trying  the  effect. 

His  offerings  had  enriched  the  house,  but  behind  the 
weapons  and  savage  trophies  was  the  old  furniture  that 
he  remembered,  the  familiar  surfaces  that  had  been  pol- 
ished by  the  elbow-grease  of  his  folk.  He  was  moved  by 
the  sight  of  it.  The  fine  old  pieces,  the  dear  old  things ! 

The  horsehair  sofa,  on  which  tempter  Chew  had  once 
spread  his  curtains  of  Nottingham  lace,  had  lost  a  castor ; 
Harry  would  replace  it.  The  oak  chest  his  mother  had 
brought  from  her  Lancashire  home  lacked  a  screw  — 
"  pretty  plain  that  fellow  Swinton  did  not  do  much  about 
the  house." 

Mr.  King's  welcome  was  a  little  thoughtful.  He  had 
played  the  part  of  Abraham,  of  streaming  locks  and  up- 
lifted hand,  and  at  the  last  moment  his  Isaac  had  been 
spared.  Only  Harry  wasn't  Isaac.  It  seemed  —  he 
brooded  over  the  Jewish  story  —  as  if  he  had  surrendered 
Isaac,  bound  him,  laid  him  on  the  altar  of  sacrifice;  and 
that  the  person  risen  from  that  funeral  pyre  had  been 
Ishmael. 

It  was  a  disturbing  idea. 

"What  do  you  think  of  doing  —  next?"  The.  family 
had  gathered  in  the  dining-room  for  tea. 


866  The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Nancy  said  that  there  were  plenty  of  jobs  going." 

"  By  this  time,  Henry,  you  ought  to  know  what  you  can 
do  best." 

"  I  do,  and  though  I'm  all  right  as  an  engineer,  I  dis- 
covered in  Africa  that  I  have  a  positive  genius  for  bus- 
iness." 

His  father  moved  impatiently.  If  Harry  was  what  he 
claimed,  why  had  he  not  made  good?  Anyway,  as  he 
hadn't  why  did  he  brag? 

"  What  I  should  like,"  continued  Harry,  unconscious 
of  criticism,  "  would  be  to  strike  a  group  of  financiers 
who'd  find  me  a  job  —  one  that  would  include  bossing  a 
lot  of  workmen  and  selling  goods." 

"  H'm !  And  if  you  found  the  financiers,  how  would 
you  persuade  them  you  could  be  useful?  " 

"  You  can  safely  leave  that  to  me,  father."  Mab  passed 
him  his  cup.  It  was  white  with  a  dark  blue  band  and 
gold  edge,  an  ordinary  cup.  Harry  looked  at  it  with  dis- 
favour. "  I  say,  mother,  can't  I  have  something  a  little 
larger?  " 

Mrs.  King  smiled,  indulgent.  She  was  glad  to  see  that 
mop  of  black  hair  in  its  old  place  at  the  table.  Albert 
was  a  pleasant  son-in-law,  waited  on  her,  ran  errands,  but 
against  her  own  boys  he  seemed  to  her  colourless.  She 
was  willing  that  Harry,  so  newly  returned,  should  be  con- 
sidered. 

"  Why,  yes  !  "  she  said.     "  Marbel,  will  you  —  " 

"  If  Henry  has  a  swedgeling  cup,  mother,  there  won't 
be  enough  tea  to  go  round."  She  turned  to  h'er  brother. 
"  You  must  put  up  with  what  you've  got." 

"  All  right,"  said  he,  and  the  long  lips  went  up  at  the 
corners.  To  have  got  him  what  he  wanted  wouldn't  have 
hurt  her.  He  looked  across  the  table  at  Swinton,  eating 
with  relish  food  that  was  a  gift. 


The  Rolling  Stone  367 

"  I  think  you  were  at  the  works  with  me?  " 

"  Towards  the  end  of  your  time." 

"Ah,  yes.     Are  you  still  there?" 

"  Sorry  to  say  I'm  out  of  a  job." 

"Been  out  long?" 

"  Er  —  er  — "     He  appeared  to  consider. 

"  How  long?  " 

"  I  can't  exactly  say.     Let  me  see  — " 

"  It  isn't  your  business,  Henry,"  snapped  his  sister, 
but  Henry  took  no  notice. 

"  And  how  long,"  said  he,  "  are  you  going  to  sponge 
on  our  old  man?  " 

m 

In  a  corner  of  the  attic  cupboard  lav.  forgotten,  a  pair 
of  the  graduated  dumb-bells  Harry  had  had  made  for  the 
display  of  long  ago.  He  found  them  that  evening  when 
he  went  to  bed  and  he  took  them  out,  even  played  with 
them  for  a  few  minutes.  Good  to  feel  he  was  still  the 
strong  man,  the  man  with  the  fourteen-inch  forearm.  The 
years  had  dropped  like  stones  into  a  pool,  they  had  van- 
ished as  if  they  had  never  been. 

He  shook  himself  out  of  his  clothes.  Six  movements 
and  he  was  in  bed,  in  the  old  bed  with  the  broken  knob. 
How  short  the  time  since  he  had  last  lain  there!  Was  it 
farther  back  than  yesternight?  Between  then  and  now 
he  had  dreamed  of  India,  Africa,  New  Zealand,  but  it 
had  only  been  a  dream.  He  was  back  in  England,  and 
that  was  reality. 

He  felt  that  he  was  come  to  stay.  To  stay?  Well, 
for  a  time,  and  during  that  time  he  would  make  things 
hum.  For  this  had  he  been  spared,  to  this  end  chosen. 
The  mists  were  beginning  to  clear.  He  would  make  things 
hum  here  in  England,  make  them  hum  mightily. 


368  The  Rolling  Stone 

He  planned  a  crusade  against  Socialists,  Little  Eng- 
landers,  people  who  had  been  born  tired.  He  was  instinct 
with  energy,  only  anxious  t*o  make  a  start.  A  nuisance 
that  nights  should  intervene  between  day  and  day. 


IV 

Mrs.  King,  nursing  her  chill,  was  breakfasting  in  bed, 
and  by  the  time  Harry  came'  down  Mr.  King  was  on  his 
way  to  the  office. 

A  brisk  Harry,  the  kindlier  for  a  good  night's  rest, 
entered  the  dining-room,  but  his  brow  clouded  when  he 
caught  sight  of  Swinton.  The  fellow  should  have  been 
out  looking  for  work. 

Mab  passed  her  brother  a  cup  of  coffee.  "  There  are 
eggs  and  bacon,"  she  said,  looking  at  the  clock,  "  but  I 
don't  know  that  they  are  hot.  Breakfast  here  is  at 
eight." 

"  Looks  like  it,"  said  Harry,  with  a  glance  at  Swinton, 
who  was  still  eating. 

Mab  smiled  to  herself.  She  had  brooded  over  her  hus- 
band's discomfiture  until  she  had  found  a  way  of  aveng- 
ing it.  She  might  not  like  Albert's  being  out  of  work, 
but  it  was  not  for  Harry  to  come  "  butting  in."  Sponge? 
Albert  was  not  the  only  one  who  would  sponge  if  he  could. 

By  Harry's  plate  lay  a  folded  paper.  Mab  had  busied 
herself  writing  and  blotting  it.  When  she  heard  Harry's 
step  on  the  stairs  she  had  put  it  ready  for  him  and  gone 
back  to  her  place. 

"  What's  that?  "  Albert  had  asked. 

"  Never  you  mind.     It's  between  me  and  Henry." 

"  You  take  care,  Mab." 

"  It's  only  a  little  practical  joke." 


The  Rolling  Stone 369 

Albert  had  shaken  his  head.  "Practical  jokes  are 
annoying." 

"  Well,  he  shouldn't  talk  about  sponging." 

Harry  had  helped  himself  to  eggs  and  bacon  and  had 
begun  his  breakfast  before  he  noticed  the  paper. 

"What's  this?  "said  he. 

For  a  moment  Mab  wondered  whether  she  had  been 
wise.  Harry  in  the  flesh  was  formidable.  But,  after  all, 
it  was  only  a  joke. 

"  You  talked  so  big  last  night  about  not  sponging  on 
father,"  she  said. 

He  stared.     "Well?" 

"  So  I  made  out  your  account." 

The  paper  was  a  bill  for  food  and  lodging  for  one  day ! 

For  a  moment  Harry  saw  red.  Into  his  mind  slid  the 
remembrance  that  upstairs  in  his  trunk  lay  the  axe  with 
which  he  had  squared  the  logs  for  his  shack  at  Orea.  He 
left  like  using  it  on  the  chairs  and  table. 

He  was  beside  himself  with  rage. 

Yet,  cutting  across  his  rage  was  the  conviction  that 
Mab  would  not  care  —  he  and  she  had  been  shaped  from 
the  same  block;  moreover,  the  chairs  and  table  were  not 
hers  but  his  father's.  Heavenly  to  let  yourself  go,  to 
chop  and  smash  and  utterly  destroy ;  but  not  so  heavenly 
if  the  onlookers  only  laughed  at  you. 

Mab,  looking  at  him  with  eyes  as  hard  as  his  own, 
would  say,  "  When  you  have  finished,  Henry,"  or  "  Dad 
will  be  pleased." 

No,  he  wouldn't  chop  up  the  furniture,  but  he  was  very 
angry,  also  he  was  hurt. 

He  looked  at  his  sister,  looked  reproachfully.  "  After 
ten  years,"  he  said. 

"  It  was  only  a  joke,"  protested  Mab,  but  a  joke  at 
Harry's  expense  was  no  joke. 


370  The  Rolling  Stone 

He  pushed  back  his  plate  and  rose. 

"  You  crackpot  —  "  she  began. 

Harry  turned  on  his  brother-in-law.  He  might  not  be 
able  to  overawe  Mab,  but  Albert  was  of  a  softer  make. 
"  Look  here,"  he  said  rising,  "  I'm  going  out  of  this  house, 
here  and  now.  But  I'll  keep  this  paper  and  I'll  never  for- 
get the  welcome  my  sister  gave  me  after  I'd  been  away 
ten  years,  never.  As  for  you,  Swinton,  see  you  find  a 
job  and  jolly  smart,  or  I'll  come  back  and  kick  you  out 
of  this.  You're  not  going  to  live  on  the  old  man,  so  don't 
you  think  it ;  and  if  I  catch  you  trying  to  get  round  him  to 
alter  his  will  I'll  break  your  neck."  With  his  right  fist 
he  hit  the  palm  of  the  other  hand,  and  Swinton,  wishing 
he  had  more  self-control,  yet  jumped.  Harry's  gestures 
were  so  forcible! 

"  I'll  give  you  a  fortnight,  and,  wherever  I  am,  if  you 
have  not  got  work  by  then  I'll  come  back." 

Pulling  silver  out  of  his  pocket,  he  counted  down  the 
exact  sum  entered  on  the  bill. 

"  Don't  be  such  an  idiot,"  cried  Mab.  "  I  tell  you  it 
was  a  joke.  As  to  my  husband,  he  had  an  offer  of  a  job 
this  morning  —  they  want  him  back  at  the  works ;  so  you 
can  put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it." 

Harry  took  no  notice;  he  did  not,  in  fact,  believe  she 
spoke  the  truth.  "  7  don't  cadge,"  he  said,  continuing 
to  glare  at  Swinton.  "  I'm  no  yattering  charity  child. 
Joke?  "  He  turned  at  last  and  looked  at  his  sister. 

**A  pretty  joke,"  he  said. 


To  Harry,  in  his  London  lodgings,  came  a  paper  from 
New  Zealand  containing  an  account  of  wedding  festivities. 


The  Rolling  Stone 371 

Kitty  Gray  had  married  the  young  accountant  with  the 
thin  legs.  She  was  now  Mrs.  Franks. 

A  month  after  he  had  sailed ! 

So  much  for  constancy !  He  felt  sorry  for  himself  as 
one  who  had  been  doubly  betrayed.  Margaret  dead, 
Kitty  married  —  and  he,  who  had  loved  them,  alone  in 
diggings  at  the  top  of  a  dingy  London  house  in  a  dreary, 
blackened  street.  Never  had  he  been  so  friendless,  so 
lonely. 

True,  the  woman  who  kept  the  lodgings  — 

Also  the  waitress  at  the  restaurant  he  favoured  — 

Also  Black  Jane,  the  housekeper  at  the  club ;  but  he 
did  not  like  her  because  she  harried  the  cashier,  who  also 
—  yes,  she  had  even  asked  him  to  take  her  to  a  theatre. 

Now  he  came  to  think  of  it,  too,  there  was  Katie  Be- 
henna  —  also  Miss  Wilson. 

Still,  he  was  lonely. 

The  Dorothys  and  Jessies  and  Annies,  each  had  the 
same  ulterior  motive:  they  were  looking  for  a  man  who 
would  provide  them  with  bread-tickets.  What  had  they 
to  give  in  return  ?  Nothing  that  Harry  wanted. 

What  did  he  want? 

Well,  he  certainly  did  not  want  to  spend  his  time  — 
waste  his  time  —  making  love. 

He  got  more  of  that  sort  of  thing  offered  him  free, 
gratis,  and  for  nothing  than  he  could  do  with. 

He  was  a  bit  fed  up  with  it,  wanted  something  different. 

Yes  —  what  he  wanted,  what  for  years  he  had  been 
trying  to  find,  what  he  thought  he  had  found  in  Margaret, 
was  a  woman  who  was  not  out  for  herself,  not  "  on  the 
make,"  a  woman  who  was  not  a  getter  but  a  giver. 

His  simple  need  was  for  a  woman  who  would  give  all 
and  ask  nothing  in  return. 

3he  was  a  little  difficult  to  find. 


372 The  Rolling  Stone 

Meanwhile  he  walked  with  the  Maggies  and  Elsies  and 
Marions ;  but  he  walked  warily. 

VI 

Harry  found  work  in  London  as  traveller  for  an  engi- 
neering firm.  The  salary  was  small  and  the  prospects 
poor,  but  for  a  month  he  had  tramped  the  pavements  of 
the  great  city  without  finding  employment,  and  he  re- 
membered Johannesburg. 

He  stayed  with  Patterson  and  Beale  for  a  half-year; 
then,  hearing  of  a  job  that  would  suit  him  better,  returned 
to  the  railway  town. 

He  could  not  go  home,  for  though  Swinton  was  now 
in  regular  employment,  he  and  his  wife  still  lived  at  No. 
14  Parkside.  Until  it  suited  Harry's  convenience  to  for- 
give his  sister  he  would  foster  his  grudge.  Meantime  it 
provided  him  with  a  reason  for  lodging  in  the  town  and  for 
bestowing  on  his  parents  only  as  much  of  his  time  as  he 
saw  fit. 

He  had  gone  back  to  the  rooms  he  had  once  shared  with 
Jack  Tremaine.  Jack's  mother,  deprived  of  her  own 
lamb  (for  Jack  had  gone  to  South  America),  made  Harry 
welcome.  His  occupation  of  the  rooms  would  give  her 
something  to  do,  help  her  to  tide  over  the  empty  months 
and  years  between  Jack's  going  and  his  return. 

She  would  mother  Harry,  feed  him  on  the  fat  of  the 
land  —  on  good  Cornish  junkets,  on  baked  rabbit,  on  po- 
tato-cakes. 

And  Harry  liked  it  —  for  a  little. 

But  —  the  same  rooms,  the  same  furniture,  the  same 
sort  of  work  as  when  he  and  Jack  were  together.  On  the 
whole  it  was  dull.  He  began  to  wish  something  might  hap- 
pen. 

The  one  mood  of  Harry's  that  was  constant! 


The  Rolling  Stone 37S 

On  the  breakfast-table  one  morning  he  found  among 
his  letters  another  newspaper,  a  newspaper  which  reminded 
him  of  Kitty  and  Kitty's  wedding.  It  bore  the  Christ- 
church  postmark,  it  was  addressed  in  Kitty's  round  writ- 
ing. 

He  realized  as  he  slit  the  cover  that  the  image  of  Kitty, 
all  claws  and  softness,  was  growing  faint.  Only  natural 
when  you  thought  how  badly  she  had  behaved,  marrying 
like  that  after  what  she  had  said.  It  was  enough  to  make 
a  man  lose  faith  in  womanhood. 

The  corner  of  one  sheet  was  turned  down.  A  blue  pen- 
cil-mark had  been  set  against  a  modest  announcement 
among  the  births.  "  To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ernest  Franks, 
of  Waironga,  a  son,  Ernest  Henry  (premature)." 

Really?  Well,  it  was  all  right.  She  was  doing  her 
duty  to  the  Empire.  A  son?  A  vague  sense  of  disap- 
pointment crept  over  Harry.  So  Kitty  had  a  son.  He 
shouldn't  have  thought  she  would  have  borne  sons,  not 
Kitty.  Well,  well  —  she  had  his  best  wishes.  Good  luck 
to  her  and  many  returns  of  the  day. 

She  had  called  the  little  chap  Henry?  Then  she  had 
not  forgotten  their  fortnight  together.  Jolly  of  her  to 
make  him  a  sort  of  godfather.  He  must  send  the  youngs- 
ter a  mug  or  a  spoon  or  something. 

Kitty  a  mother !  The  Kitty  who  —  he  lost  himself  in 
agreeable  recollections.  What  a  long  time  ago  it  seemed! 
Nine  —  no,  ten  months.  He  looked  at  the  date  of  Ernest 
Henry's  birth.  Nine  months  after  — 

Suddenly  he  grew  hot,  hot  in  a  queer,  uncomfortable, 
yet  ecstatic  way.  The  blood  beat  in  his  temples. 

No,  nonsense,  it  could  not  be,  and  yet  — 

Premature? 

Was  that  why  she  had  sent  him  the  announcement? 
Could  it  be? 


374 The  Rolling  Stone 

Why  else? 

He  threw  back  his  head  chuckling.  The  little  cat,  she 
had  known  how  to  take  care  of  herself  and  Ernest  Henry ! 
Fine!  He  would  never  have  thought  Kitty,  little  fluffy 
Kitty,  had  had  it  in  her. 

For  a  moment  he  rendered  homage.  He  had  caught, 
among  the  cloud-drifts,  a  gleam  of  light.  Kitty's  will, 
purpose,  inscrutability,  flashed  out  at  him.  She  had  used 
him,  she  had  done  as  she  would,  she  had  been  silent. 

He  was  a  little  awed. 

Suddenly  he  began  to  doubt. 

He  was  a  fool,  just  that.  He  had  made  up  a  fine  story 
but  it  was  all  bunkum. 

Kitty  was  Kitty! 

She  wasn't  the  sort  that  leaves  you  guessing;  during 
their  last  talk  she  would  have  hinted  — 

Well,  she  hadn't. 

There  might  have  been  reasons!  He  sat  down  to  his 
breakfast  and  found  that  he  was  hungry;  found  that, 
though  he  had  not  liked  to  acknowledge  it,  he  was  also 
happy  —  extremely  happy ! 

If  Kitty  had  told  him  he  would  have  married  her,  Mar- 
garet or  no  —  certainly. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  she  had  not  trusted  him  to 
do  the  straight  thing?  He  did  not  know  what  her  ex- 
perience had  been.  Probably  some  man  had  let  her  down, 
let  her  down  badly.  If  she  had  been  any  judge  of  faces 
she  might  have  known  that  he  was  different. 

A  mistake  to  lump  all  men  together! 

A  fellow  who  could  leave  a  woman  to  face  the  music 
was  a  lousy  scab,  that*s  what  he  was. 

A  son ! 

With  a  thrill,  Harry  remembered  Richard's   children, 


The  Rolling  Stone  375 

the  baby  who  had  clasped  little  pink  fingers  about  a  big 
hookey  thumb. 

He  had  envied  Richard. 

He  lost  himself  in  a  dream :  the  child  —  the  child  he 
would  never  see.  Never?  What  nonsense!  Some  day 
he  would  go  back  to  New  Zealand  and  hunt  up  Ernest 
Henry.  Would  he  know  him?  In  a  room  full  of  boys  — 
he  visualized  him  in  a  schoolroom  —  would  he  be  able  to 
spot  him,  to  say  with  certainty,  "  That's  the  one !  That's 
mine ! " 

Kitty  ought  to  have  let  him  know.  A  man,  a  father, 
had  rights. 

Yet  he  depends  on  a  woman's  acknowledgment  of  his 
parenthood  for  those  rights !  Not  a  pleasant  state  of 
affairs :  belittling.  Henry  wondered  why  the  Ruler  of 
the  Universe  should  have  permitted  it. 

"Aren't  you  rather  late  this  morning?"  Mrs.  Tre- 
maine  put  her  old,  still  handsome  head  round  the  door, 
and  Harry  wished  that  he  might  have  told  her  his  news. 
He  mustn't,  of  course,  it  would  not  do ;  and,  after  all,  it 
was  only  a  guess. 

But  he  felt  pretty  sure. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  the  works  today." 

She  scanned  his  face.  He  did  not  look  ill.  **  Bad 
news?  " 

"  Er  —  no." 

He  loafed  about  the  room,  whistling  a  song,  one  the 
men  had  sung  round  camp  fires,  a  song  about  "  home  " 
and  "  mother."  Yes,  he  felt  pretty  sure.  The  fact  of 
his  fatherhood  was  like  a  fire  at  which  he  was  warming 
his  hands,  warming  his  heart.  He  was  filled  with  happi- 
ness, he  glowed.  If  that  old  pumper  of  his  were  to  give 
out  now,  this  very  moment,  something  of  him  would  still 


376  The  Rolling  Stone 

live  on.  The  miracle  of  birth  held  him  entranced.  Flesh 
of  his  flesh,  speaking  with  his  voice,  looking  on  the  world 
with  his  eyes,  yet  some  one  of  whom  he  might  —  save  for 
Kitty's  guarded  message  —  have  never  heard ! 

The  very  existence  of  his  son  might  have  been  kept  from 
him.  As  it  was,  the  boy  was  a  stranger. 

So  near  and  yet  a  stranger. 

The  closest  of  relationships  and  yet  it  could  not  be 
acknowledged.  Something  wrong  there.  He  wanted  his 
son  to  know  him,  be  proud  of  him. 

But  the  boy  would  be  brought  up  in  New  Zealand,  would 
bear  another  name,  call  another  man  "  father." 

No  catch  in  that! 

Harry  imagined  the  youngster  was  learning  to  walk,  to 
read,  to  fight:  developing  the  traits  of  his  true  sire.  He 
should  have  had  a  hand  in  the  lad's  upbringing.  A  boy's 
best  friend  is  his  father. 

"  My  son,"  said  Harry  rather  mournfully.  He  had 
been  cheated  of  his  rights. 


VII 

Too  restless  to  remain  long  indoors,  he  sauntered,  after 
dinner,  into  the  town.  The  weather  being  fine,  Main 
Street  was  filled  with  shoppers.  Harry  regarded  them 
with  an  air  of  benevolence.  They  were  mostly  women, 
they  were  wasting  their  husbands'  hard-earned  money  on 
things  they  did  not  want,  but  what  did  it  matter?  Money 
was  not  everything. 

A  little  boy,  thin  and  ragged,  was  staring  into  a  pastry- 
cook's window.  Harry  gave  him  a  penny.  "  Run  in 
and  buy  yourself  a  bun." 

He  could  not  bear  to  think  of  a  child  hungry.     If  ever 


The  Rolling  Stone  377 

his  dream-fortune  materialized  he  would  endow  an  orphan- 
age. All  children  ought  to  have  a  good  home,  good  school- 
ing, the  opportunity  to  make  a  good  living. 

"Why,  it's  Harry  King!"  Mrs.  Drummond  stopped 
and  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  glad  to 
see  her.  She  was,  if  not  a  friend,  at  least  a  friendly  ac- 
quaintance ;  she  was  a  pal.  He  looked  from  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond to  her  daughter,  looked  at  Susie's  round  dimpling 
face,  at  her  plump,  matronly  figure  —  regular  little 
pouter-pigeon." 

"  Oh,  Harry,  I'm  so  glad  it's  you !  You've  never  seen 
baby?" 

"  I  want  to."  Harry  knew  the  other  children,  had  as- 
cended to  their  nursery  now  and  then  for  a  "  roughhouse," 
but  baby  was  new. 

"  They  are  just  ahead  with  nurse."  She  quickened 
her  steps,  hastening  after  a  smart  young  woman  in  butch- 
er-blue. The  young  woman  was  wheeling  a  perambulator 
by  which  walked  two  little  boys.  To  Mrs.  Gage's  dismay, 
baby,  who  until  that  moment  had  been  cooing  and  blowing 
bubbles,  had,  as  nurse  said,  "  just  dropped  off." 

"  What  a  nuisance !  "  said  baby's  mother.  She  stooped 
over  the  perambulator.  "  Honey-lamb's  little  chin  is 
quite  hidden,  such  a  ducky  chin !  " 

"  Stir  it  up,"  said  Harry,  "  I  want  to  see  it  properly." 

"  Indeed  I  won't,  you  Goth.     What  an  idea !  " 

"What  is  it?     A  boy?" 

"  Why,  Harry,  can't  you  see  her  bonnet  and  the  pink 
bows?  Of  course  she's  a  girl." 

"  Only  a  girl."  Harry  felt  important  and  superior. 
He  had  a  son. 

"  Tom  said  he'd  divorce  me  if  I  had  another  boy.  He 
wanted  a  girl."  She  tucked  the  cover  closer  about  the 
sleeping  baby.  "  My  blossom !  " 


378 The  Rolling  Stone 

"  Oh,  she's  a  daisy,"  said  Harry  gaily.  "  What's  her 
name?  " 

"  We  called  her  after  mother  —  Ursula  —  Ursula 
Mary.  I  think  one  ought  to  hand  on  family  names." 

"  Yes,"  said  Harry,  but  with  a  sudden  loss  of  gaiety. 
The  name  he  wanted  to  hand  on  was  King. 

Ernest  Henry  Franks! 

It  was  simply  damnable. 


VIII 

"  Are  you  busy?  " 

"  No,  I've  taken  the  day  off." 

"  Then  come  and  have  tea  with  us  at  the  Geisha." 

"And  drink  to  your  bright  eyes?     Rather!" 

"You  remember  what  a  stuffy  hole  it  was?  The 
Humbys  were  too  old  to  run  it  properly.  Now  they've 
got  a  manager,  a  really  smart  woman,  and  everybody 
drops  in  of  an  afternoon  for  tea.  It  is  more  like  a  club 
than  a  tea-shop." 

The  cafe  was  a  large  room  with  a  beamed  ceiling  and 
panelled  walls,  the  darkness  of  which  had  been  relieved  by 
strips  of  mirror.  Table-cloths,  china,  flower-vases  were 
scrupulously  clean  and  fresh,  and  in  the  scheme  of  colour 
white  predominated,  but  with  the  white  was  always  a  sug- 
gestion of  purple. 

"Isn't  the  place  improved?"  said  Susie  over  her 
shoulder,  as  they  made  their  way  to  a  table  which  com- 
manded the  room,  but  Harry  was  himself  looking  back 
and  did  not  hear.  Near  the  door  was  a  red-brown  ma- 
hogany cage  with  clear  glass  walls  in  which  sat  a  young 
woman.  Harry,  walking  up  the  room  in  the  wake  of  Mrs. 
Drummond  and  her  daughter,  had  glanced  in  at  the  crys- 
tal window,  had  met  a  soft  and  serious  gaze. 


The  Boiling  Stone 379 

He  was  looking  back  in  the  hope  of  meeting  it  again. 

"  It  is  odd,"  said  Mrs.  Drummond,  as  a  neat  waitress 
with  white  apron  and  purple  bows  brought  their  tea,  "  that 
we  should  have  met  you  today,  Harry,  for  this  morning 
I  was  turning  out  my  desk  and  I  found  a  copy  of  that  old 
horoscope  I  did  for  you.  I  was  noticing  the  date  of 
your  birth." 

"  Seventeenth  of  October,"  said  Harry. 

"  The  last  chapter  of  Proverbs  has  thirty-one  verses, 
and  each  verse  is  said  to  describe  the  person  born  on  that 
day  of  the  month.  I  was  curious  and  looked  up  yours. 
It  was :  '  She  girdeth  her  loins  with  strength  and  maketh 
strong  her  arms.' ' 

"  But,  mother,"  said  Susie,  "  I  thought  for  a  man  the 
date  of  his  birth  in  Proverbs  showed  what  sort  of  a  wife 
he  would  have." 

"  They  say  so,  but  the  seventeenth  verse  seemed  de- 
scriptive of  Harry;  it  may,  of  course,  be  descriptive  of  the 
sort  of  woman  he  should  marry." 

"  I  don't  want  strength  in  a  wife,  I  want  sweetness." 

Mrs.  Drummond  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  Would 
any  one  hold  him?  She  doubted  it.  "I  wonder  if  you 
know  what  you  want?  " 

"  A  man,"  said  Harry,  "  wants  peace  in  his  home." 
He  had  shifted  his  chin  so  that,  without  appearing  to 
stare,  he  could  watch  the  cage. 

"  You  enjoy  strife." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  really  know  me,  Mrs.  Drummond. 
I've  led  a  wandering  sort  of  life,  but  all  the  time  I've 
looked  forward  to  having  a  home  of  my  own.  I've  a 
strong  domestic  side." 

"No  —  really?"     What  next  would  he  say? 

*'  I'm  a  lonely  beggar."  He  was  so  sorry  for  himself 
that  his  eyes  watered.  He  was  indeed  alone  in  the  world. 


380  The  Rolling  Stone 

No  one  cared  what  became  of  him;  if  he  died  tomorrow 
no  one  would  grieve.  What  a  state  of  affairs !  "  I'm 
not  so  young  as  I  was."  Fancy  painted  a  picture  of  ad- 
vancing years,  of  senility,  an  old  man  without  ties,  with- 
out descendants  —  ay,  there  was  .  the  rub,  without  de- 
scendants !  Richard  had  children.  James  had  a  youngs- 
ter, he  had  heard  that  even  Mab  was  hoping.  It  wasn't 
fair  that  he,  Harry,  should  have  only  the  bantling  that 
he  could  not  claim.  "  Really,  Mrs.  Drummond,  I  can 
think  of  nothing  that  would  give  me  greater,  more  real 
happiness  than  to  settle  down,  to  settle  here  where  I  was 
born;  to  give  up  wandering  in  order  to  get  what  other 
men  have  —  a  home,  my  own  sticks  of  furniture  —  "  He 
smiled  but  did  not  complete  the  sentence  —  Harry  was 
always  modest. 

"Who  is  the  lady?" 

Having  but  that  moment  seen  her,  having  as  yet  no  idea 
of  her  name,  he  could  not  say. 

"  I'll  tell  you  when  I  know." 

"  I'm  glad  you  think  of  settling  down,"  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond said,  and  Susie  echoed  her  words.  But  she  was  not 
glad.  Happily  married,  a  proud  mother,  she  would  yet 
have  preferred  Harry  to  remain  a  bachelor.  Though  she 
no  longer  loved  him,  she  remembered. 

"  I  want  a  home,"  repeated  the  rolling  stone.  He 
wanted  more  than  a  home,  he  wanted  a  family  —  a  number 
of  dark  heads  all  bearing  a  strong  resemblance  to  Harry 
King. 

"  Poor  Harry  !  "  said  Susie  softly,  "  yes,  of  course !  " 

The  big  room  was  filling  rapidly.  At  a  table  near  the 
cage  sat  a  Dane  whom  Harry  knew  slightly.  Jansen  was 
manager  of  the  margarine  works.  He  was  drinking  tea 
and  he  was  looking  at  the  cage.  It  was  evident  he  did 


The  Rolling  Stone  381 

not  care  who  saw  his  preoccupation  with  it.  Harry  felt 
a  sudden  desire  to  bat  this  innocent,  unsuspecting  person 
between  the  eyes  —  "a  bald-headed  coot,  old  enough  to  be 
her  father." 

"  This  place  is  very  different  from  what  it  was,"  he  be- 
gan, turning  to  Susie. 

"  That  is  due  to  the  manager,"  she  indicated  the  cage, 
"  Mrs.  Roslyn." 

"Mrs?" 

"  A  widow,"  explained  Mrs.  Drummond,  "  a  widow 
with  one  little  boy." 

"  Looks  young  for  that,"  but  at  the  information  his 
heart  had  leaped.  Her  motherhood  added  to  her  value 
in  his  eyes.  It  was  as  if  she  had  said :  "  See  what  I 
can  do.  I  have  done  it  once  and  I  can  do  it  again."  In 
him  a  current  of  thought  was  running  parallel  with  one 
of  emotion.  Mrs.  Roslyn  was  bonnie,  a  big  bonnie  woman ; 
he  had  never  seen  any  one  he  admired  so  much.  She  was 
emphatically  his  style. 

"  Her  name  is  Belle.  Suitable,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Drummond.  "  £>he  is  one  of  those  capable  people  who 
make  you  realize  that  at  her  own  sort  of  work  a  woman 
can  always  earn  a  living.  Her  husband  died  last  year, 
and  though  she  had  no  special  training,  she  offered  for 
this  job  and  got  it." 

So  she  had  to  make  a  living  for  herself  and  her  boy, 
had  she?  Harry  admired  capability. 

"  The  Humbys,"  continued  Mrs.  Drummond,  "  are  so 
pleased  they  talk  of  adopting  her,  but,"  she  smiled  "  it 
won't  be  long  before  she  has  a  home  of  her  own." 

"  She  is  engaged  to  Mr.  Jansen,"  said  Susie,  and  was 
glad  to  say  it. 

•*  Ah !  "  said  Harry,  and  went  on  with  his  tea.     En- 


382 The  Rolling  Stone 

gaged  was  she,  and  to  the  bald-headed  coot  ?  —  engaged 
before  even  she  met  him,  Harry?  A  mistake  to  be  in  such 
a  hurry. 

Not  that  he  wanted  to  marry.  Well  then,  he  did  and 
he  didn't.  He  wanted,  when  that  old  pumper  of  his  gave 
way,  to  leave  behind  a  bit  of  himself,  and  that  bit  must 
bear  his  name,  must  be  recognizable  as  his. 

Ridiculous  that  illegitimate  children  belong  to  the 
mother,  have  her  surname. 

Also  he  would  like  to  have  a  home  —  for  a  time. 

As  things  were,  life  was  dull. 

To  enter  the  lists  against  Jansen  would  be  exciting, 
give  him  something  to  think  about,  to  do. 

He  was  already  planning  his  campaign.  He  would  say 
good-bye  to  Mrs.  Drummond  and  Susie  at,  the  door  of  the 
cafe  and  come  back  for  —  well,  for  his  stick. 

A  few  words  with  the  manager. 

Then  he  would  hang  about  till  the  Geisha  closed.  When 
Mrs.  Roslyn  appeared  at  the  side  door  she  would  find 
him  waiting. 

He  would  beg  to  be  allowed  to  see  her  home. 

A  bit  of  courting,  eventually  a  house  of  his  own  and, 
upstairs,  rooms  filled  as  Susie  had  filled  hers.  Boys  — 
Susie  had  two  boys  — 

Mrs.  Drummond  beckoned  to  a  waitress  and  paid  the 
bill.  Harry  followed  his  hostess  out  of  the  cafe,  trying, 
as  he  passed  the  mahogany  cage,  to  catch  Mrs.  Roslyn's 
soft  hazel  eye.  But  the  manager  was  writing  busily  and 
did  not  look  up. 

What  a  sweep  of  dark  lashes,  what  a  bloomy  cheek ! 

"  Thanks  so  much,  Mrs.  Drummond.  Bother !  I  must 
have  left  my  stick  behind.  If  you'll  excuse  me  —  " 

"  Here  it  is?  Harry.     I  noticed  you  had  left  it." 


The  Rolling  Stone 383 

Harry's  hard  face  relaxed.     "  Done !  "  and  he  chuckled. 
"  Never  mind  her,"  soothed  Mrs.  Drummond.     "  You 
be  off  back!" 

And  Harry  turned  without  a  word. 


IX 

He  had  no  time  to  lose.  Engaged  to  Jansen?  After 
all,  a  thing  wasn't  worth  having  unless  you  had  to  fight 
for  it. 

You  wanted  what  other  men  wanted;  not  for  its  own 
sake  but  because  they  wanted  it.  And  you  wanted  it  just 
as  long  as  you  had  to  fight  in  order  to  keep  it. 

That  was  the  fun  of  it  — the  fighting,  not  the  purse 
and  the  side-stakes. 

Harry  thrilled  to  this  adventure  as  he  had  to  every 
other  from  the  day  he  called  "  Bogey,"  from  the  day  he 
first  drew  breath. 

He  wanted  Mrs.  Roslyn  because  Jansen  wanted  her  but 
also  for  what  she  could  give.  His  instinct  was  clamorous. 

He  had  nothing  to  offer,  neither  money  nor  position. 

Yet  he  would  win. 

He  knew  it  before  he  saw  Mrs.  Roslyn  again,  before 
he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  cafe. 

Damn  Kitty!  Here  was  something  better  worth  his 
while. 


THE    END 


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